


I must be your favourite, right?

by FlyingLizards



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, No beta we die like mne, Possessive Tom Riddle, Screw that, Slow Burn, This is basically Tom's hogwarts' years but with something extra, Time Travel, Tom Riddle being a rancid child, now with beta from chapter 8 onwards we no longer dying fellas, sorta - Freeform, very the time traveler's wife in that aspect but not much, you know what happened???? THIS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26098231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingLizards/pseuds/FlyingLizards
Summary: Tom Riddle meets a strange boy who roams lost in Hogwarts.The legend of Slytherin's lost boy; someone who appears and disappears in the blink of an eye, all throught history, had never really caught his attentionUntil said boy appeared to him.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 338
Kudos: 1308
Collections: The Witch's Woods





	1. First Year. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> uuh, beware of typos

1

The house system had been implemented only recently, and the first students who had come to learn under it were few, but the four of them hoped that the number would increase steadily each week.

A formal schedule was yet to be decided, and it would not be until Hogwarts was officially established. It was more stressful than necessary, and Salazar did not care at all for the arrangement; the fact remained to be that the old apprentice system was far more accommodating, yet Rowena was sure that the possibility of learning far more varied magic in the same place, instead of investing in years of apprenticeship under different teachers to master a few magical subjects would be more enriching in the long run for the magical community at large.

Still, the castle remained pitifully almost empty.

Salazar mused that, if not for the valuable knowledge promised, then at least their reputation would be able to draw more students in. Hopefully that would be enough for the old families to bring themselves to ignore the vermin that was to mix in the student population. Three out of the four of them voted to give mudbloods a chance of learning from them. Salazar’s opinion was yet again, ignored.

It was thanks to the low number of people eating at the great hall that Salazar noticed the stowaway in between their ranks. A boy, maybe at the edge of maturity, was seated at the Gryffindor table, wearing Godric’s family's Colors embodied in black robes. That was a new face, and it was impossible for there to be new arrivals he’d be unaware of, since Salazar would have been present for their sorting. 

This was an intruder whose presence went under his friends’ notice.

The boy looked lost; he was staring wide eyed, eyes roaming the ceiling, the other children’s faces, and the food in front of him. His features pale, almost greenish, his mouth slightly agape.

His eyes met Salazar’s.

Salazar blinked and the boy was gone.

Salazar had brought his concerns about the interloper to his colleagues, and Rowena assured him that the anti-apparition wards had not been tampered with. Helga suggested that maybe they just had a metamorphomagus and were not aware of it.

Salazar decided to keep this neatly guarded at a corner of his mind, to not be distracted of his daily routine.

So when the boy appeared again, this time right by his side, in the moment when the heart stills between heartbeats, he did not allow himself to flinch or show confusion. He stared down and spoke clearly.

“And who are you supposed to be?” He held his wand tight and looked down his nose at the boy, who jumped and looked straight at Salazar.

Salazar’s breath froze in his throat when he found himself under killer curse green eyes regarding him silently, almost curiously .

The boy took a defensive position in one fluid motion; hand going to were a wand should be, remaining empty. This movement shook off Salazar off his astonishment. “Are you a threat?” he snarled.

The boy answered in a tongue he had never heard before, but the tone was questioning and defiant. Perhaps this young man only spoke a rare dialect and so he wandered to the castle unable to understand where he was and who was he supposed to talk to?

Salazar made a conscious effort to look non-threatening “My name is Salazar Slytherin.” he elegantly brought a hand to his chest and then motioned towards the stranger, looking at him expectantly. 

He was being studied again, like one would an insect. The boy’s eyes widened when they caught on the locket hanging from Salazar's neck, and he stood straight, mouth opening and closing. He finally regained himself and whispered shrilly in his own tongue. Salazar tried to make up the words, assuming this was the stranger’s name. He decided to ask.

“You are _‘Whathehell_ , then?"

The strange child looked as if he had swallowed something unsavory; Salazar realized that he must have offended him somehow. That was when the boy started laughing, a tint hysterically and with no mirth at all.

Now Salazar was the one who felt offended. And faintly worried.

The boy gathered himself with difficulty and frowned pensively, and then he said.

 _“My name is Harry, and I don’t kno-”_ Salazar blinked, and the boy had vanished again. It was a few moments later that he realized that the boy had spoken the language of snakes to him.

*

There were many secrets and mysteries in Hogwarts;

From secret passages, to hidden rooms, to the origins of the ghosts' that inhabited the castle. 

Unbeknownst to many students some of them were made by the founders themselves for their entertainment and the generations’ to come.

One of the less known ones, for example, was that if you were to run by the fifth floor nine hours before the full moon reached the sky, the portraits would be magically compelled to chase after you for a week no matter where you went.

There were some corners that, if you were to fall asleep near them, you’d wake up somewhere different, usually at the other side of the castle. That was the _real_ reason why you should never fall asleep on the hallways, no matter what strict teachers said.

Tom found that the mysteries surrounding his favorite school founder, Salazar Slytherin, were by far the most interesting ones. He, unlike the other founders, was not prone to silly pranks or roundabout ways to teach lessons beyond the grave. Slytherin’s mysteries were not only for the witty, the brave, or the curious; they were for the worthy to find.

Many could choose or learn to be brave, witty and curious. Worthiness was something you were born with.

Worthiness was something that Tom _had_ been born with. Him, who could talk to snakes and was years ahead of his peers, him who held no fears.

The chamber of secrets and the beast it contained was the one mystery that fascinated him the most, for only Slytherin’s heir would be able to find it and open it.

Slytherins’ lost boy, as they called it, was only noted by Tom as a curiosity, even though the story held its own chapter in _Hogwarts a History_.

The first month at Hogwarts had been a nightmare; the jeering, the insults, many that Tom didn’t even _understand, but_ were mouthed under a sneer and cold eyes, and so Tom caught easily to the fact that he was unwanted _._ _Slytherin’s local little mudblood_ was marked as prey the second the hat left his head.

How _funny_ , how _ironic,_ Tom seethed. No matter where he went, he was always found _less_ than.

Thankfully, his peers’ harassment only happened inside Slytherin’s common room as one of his House’s many unwritten rules of behavior. 

Showing a united front for the other houses was the only thing that saved him from being attacked by his housemates while walking from classroom to classroom. 

Well, Tom could show a _“united front”_ as well.

*

When it came to Affronts Marcus Avery had been particularly awful in comparison to the others.

Tom hated being ignored, which was the path chosen by most of his dorm mates, but it was a tolerable outcome, considering all the other possibilities. 

But not Avery, who saw fit to throw contemptuous backhanded comments every time Tom was within earshot, preening in his self-perceived subtlety; flaunting his wealth with abandon under Tom’s nose, not aware that the effect that it had on his intended victim was wild, all-encompassing _ire._

Tom would be bloody subtle, all for the _united front_ horse shit, when he retaliated.

Sadly his plans always sinned to be too much on the side of convoluted, but, in terms of satisfaction, the results of his revenges were always worth the pains he had to go through to accomplish them. 

Tom envisioned it during breakfast the day before; when Avery received a package from his mother and Allan Rosier gave a mumbled complain about the crumbs that will be scattered on their dorm room for weeks to come.

Avery fawned over his owl, and gave it bacon from a plate, as if the animal was an esteemed guest and not a dirty bird dropping feathers all over their cereal.

That night Avery opened the box, ate two biscuits that crumbled generously at every bite, and hid the box inside his trunk.

Tom had had a brilliant idea then.

First, he needed to catch and kill the damn bird.

Then, transfiguration.

The owlery was empty, as it normally was this early in the morning, just minutes after curfew ended. It was also unfairly cold, the morning dew permeating the air, his hair and his robes. Tom shivered and efficiently looked for the ugly fat thing, undeterred by the stink of bird shit and feathers.

How could people stand coming here almost daily was beyond him.

The owls were eying him warily, the ones near him hooting in distress.

He saw _Hermes_ at the end of the row, next to one of the school's barn owls. The thing was sleeping. Tom approached slowly, careful to not scare any of the other birds, he stopped in front of it, pulled on some thick transfigured gloves and reached towards its neck-

“Sending letters, are we?”

Tom startled at the voice and turned quickly on his heels. There was an older Gryffindor student peering at him with a completely unimpressed expression on his face, just a couple of feet away. Tom swore mentally and reviewed the last minute inside his head, Tom hadn't seen him when he had checked on the owlery, how long had he been there? Was he going to snitch on him?

There was nothing to snitch on, Tom had done nothing yet. 

“None of your business,” he snapped. The older teen, surprisingly, smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. 

It didn't reach his eyes.

“I happen to like owls, and you didn’t seem to have the intention to grab it gently.”

“You can’t know that,'' he countered calmly, searching for how to turn the situation in his favor. Gryffindor older students harassed him not for being a mudblood, but for being a Slytherin, the embroidery on his robes dammed him. He just needed to endure whatever petty humiliation the other had in mind for him.

Tom tried but couldn’t place him on any of the faces he’s seen in the castle. That didn’t mean much, since he hasn’t been in Hogwarts for long yet.

The stranger looked to be in his last years of education, maybe a sixth or seventh year. His eyes were green, green like nothing Tom had ever seen before. He was not even aware that shade existed, even less on a human.

He had the strangest scar on his forehead.

“I guess I can’t.” The teen conceded “You don’t carry a letter though, Tom.”

He knew his name; that was bad.

“Who are you anyways?”

“Harry,” he said flatly.

He scrunched up his nose “ _Just_ Harry? No last name? ”

The stranger, Harry, snorted. 

“Yes. _Just_ Harry. _”_

Tom’s annoyance was increasing by the second. His hands twitched for his wand, for something to seize and _squeeze._

“You don’t carry a letter either, Harry,” He pointed out snidely. “What are you doing here?”

Harry shrugged “Looking for something familiar,” he answered lightly “And I found it.”

“Did you?”

Harry’s face did something strange then, his expression between tired and resigned. The owlery quieted and Tom felt pinned under the older boy’s gaze.

“Found you,” he whispered, sounding incredibly disappointed, much to Tom’s confusion and offence.

Then, 

Tom blinked, and Harry was gone.

Time stops, it ripples.

Tom jerked his head to both sides, and then extended his arms ahead, feeling for something other than air. There was nothing there, all that remained in the owlery was him, the owls and their foul smell.

He was sure something unthinkable must have happened, despite the simplicity of the interaction, his senses were screaming. There were so many things he didn’t know yet, about magic and how people could, apparently, disappear at will. So Tom cuts his losses short and made a strategic retreat.

Hermes would live another day, it seemed. Anyways, Rat skulls could be just as crunchy as those disgusting biscuits.

He’d have to find this Harry and make sure he kept his mouth shut as well. He’d have to find him and speak to him again.

The encounter remained in his mind's eyes, despite seeming frankly undeserving of further escrutiny, it prevailed vividly in his memory. Tom was sure that time had faltered with Harry's final hesitant exhale.

That night Avery had made a face mid chew. It must have been the second he felt the dough turn into fur on his tongue. He spit and stared wide eyed at the now disfigured rat head. Broken and wet. His expression first twisted in incomprehension, then in disgust and growing panic.

He glanced at Tom’s face, the blood draining away fast from his cheeks, he looked seconds away from passing out. Mouth agape and chest heaving.

Tom smirked lightly, raising a brow.

Marcus Avery threw up all over the floor, and ran away.

Tom vanished the mess, got rid of the tampered biscuits still left on the box, and waited patiently for the rest of his dorm mates' arrival.

“Has anybody seen Marcus?” asked Ronan Bulstrode when curfew started. 

Nobody had.

*

“Professor, if I may ask you a question? It doesn’t have to do with today’s lesson, though.”

Slughorn smiled kindly albeit blandly, and leaned back slowly, chair creaking.

“You may, my boy.”

Tom drew in a breath, straightening himself.

“It is completely impossible to apparate inside Hogwarts’ grounds, is that correct?”

“Exactly, the only exception to this rule would be the headmaster.”

Tom bit his lip, made himself look sheepish.

“Yesterday, I met a boy at the owlery,” he began “he spoke to me for a while. But he disappeared before my eyes. I think he was trying to scare me, professor.”

“Oh dear, he might have used a disillusionment charm or something similar. Care to describe him to me?”

Nodding, Tom began “He was a Gryffindor student, had green eyes,” vibrant green eyes, piercing and strange “and round glasses, dark hair. He also had a scar on his face, it began at his hairline and broke through his eyebrow, it looked like a light- ”

“Like a lightning bolt?” Slughorn interrupted, now visibly more excited “Congratulations Mr. Riddle! You’ve found Slytherin’s lost boy!”

Tom's nervous act shattered in his astonishment.

“Professor?”

Slughorn smiled joyfully and leaned closer then, the chair complained faintly “There was talk yesterday that another bed appeared momentarily on the Gryffindor’s seventh year rooms! The staff has been wondering if anybody had met the lost boy!”

Tom blinked bemusedly “Professor, if he is a Gryffindor, then why is he _Slytherin’s lost boy_?”

Slughorn stood up and motioned after him “Follow me Mr. Riddle,” he guided Tom to the office adjacent to the potion’s classroom, walking faster than Tom had ever seen him before. “Please sit, I’ll serve you some tea” a moment later, a steaming tea cup floated his way, Tom brought it to his lips stoically; it had too much sugar. Slughorn sat in front of him with his own teacup and seemed to almost vibrate in childish excitement. “You say you had a full conversation with him?”

“Just a few words, Professor.”

“Ah! That is exceptional in itself, Mr. Riddle. There are few people that are known by being able to talk to the boy, one of them Bathilda Bagshot! You know of her, of course, he asked her what day it was and he disappeared before she could answer!” This made Tom feel somewhat proud of himself. “I’ve only ever caught a glimpse of him once when I was a school boy myself!” he grinned, “He looked awfully surprised to see me, or maybe who knows what he was actually seeing!”

If it weren’t for the unnerving sensation brought by the boy’s parting, Tom would have dismissed Slughorn’s explanation. Tom heard the flutter of doxy wings by his side, the specimen in the jar by his left was listening raptly at Slughorn’s voice.

“Professor, you haven’t answered my question. Why is a Gryffindor Slytherin’s lost boy?”

Slughorn gave him a secretive smile, as if he was to divulge the hottest gossip and not a school myth “They call him Slytherin’s lost boy, because he was the source of Slytherin's greatest obsession, before he left Hogwarts.

People have seen him appear all over the centuries; in classrooms, in hallways, sometimes even on the dining hall, eating at the Gryffindor table! It’s rare to see him and even rarer to speak to him. And every time someone achieves speaking to him he always asks something along the lines of ‘what year is it?’ ‘what time is it?’ ‘what class is this?’ and every time someone gets to ask _him_ what he is doing he always answers ‘I’m lost’ or ‘I’m looking for something’ but no one knows what, and he soon vanishes!”

Tom has forgotten the tea in his hands, too enraptured, taking in this information. Slughorn, takes a sip of his cup and continues “There’s a register of this. Every time the boy appears, an extra bed also appears at the Gryffindor seventh years’ rooms, because the castle has, during that brief moment, an extra student! And that’s how we know we aren’t talking about a ghost or an inventive poltergeist.”

“You called him Slytherin’s obsession, sir., he prompted.

“Yes, Salazar Slytherin encountered him repeatedly, and he detailed the encounters in his diary which, sadly, has been lost to time. The founders themselves did not know where the boy came from, or _when_ , and Salazar Slytherin was the only one capable of communicating with him.” He chuckles “That’s why when the teachers roam the hallways of the castle aimlessly they call it a ‘Salazar stroll’ Slytherin would look for him around the castle at random times, without direction at all, until he found him eventually” he grinned softly “And you, in your first month, not only found the boy but you also spoke to him! That must be one of the greatest omens for your school career.”

The excitement Tom had been feeling the last few minutes dwindled slightly at the reminded of his _school career._ He suppressed a sneer; Slughorn _could not_ be that ignorant of what happened inside his House.

Tom plastered a sweet smile on his face and copied Slughorn’s cheer “Indeed, professor”

“And? Tell me, my boy, what did you talk about? ”

“Oh not much,” he kept his tone even _“I happen to like owls…”_ _“Yes! Just Harry”_ _“Looking for something familiar, and I found it”_ _“Found you”_ “He was lost, looking for something.”

“Did he say what?”

_Something familiar_

“No, sir. I’m sorry.”

“Oh don’t apologize, my boy, mysteries are more fun when they remain as such. We might never know what he is looking for or if he will ever find it.” he chuckled and took the last sip of his tea.

_Found you_

“I think the same, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooff  
> This has been a daydream that i've had for like a year or so, so i decided to write it down! hope you guys enjoy this idea as much as I do. 
> 
> also, this could have anywhere between 8 to 15 chapters, depending on where I decide to cut each one.


	2. First year. 2.

Rain wasn’t an uncommon feature in his life, but it was only now that he understood its charm.

Tom let himself relish in the clean air, in the fresh smell of wet earth. The Viaduct Courtyard seemed almost delicate behind the curtain of water. The sight ahead was hidden by thick clouds; as if there was no world beyond Hogwart’s castle.

He had defense soon, but the low ground clouds had caught his attention while he rushed to class. It drew him in when a burst of wind swept strongly and made it look like the rain was falling sideways.

He couldn’t find such beauty in London, where rain only meant leaking roofs, mud, and eternally wet shoes. It meant staying inside or brave roaming the streets in search of a cold.

The downpour dwindled into a drizzle, the sight of the courtyard now clearer than before. There were snails on the stones, he could see. They were blue, for some reason.

The rain arrested and it condensed onto a light nebline for what couldn’t be more than a second.

Harry walked out of thin air, stuttering in his pacing when he saw himself drenched. He ran towards the entrance to the courtyard but halted when he saw Tom. His robes seemed darker than before and his glasses had fogged up, he took a decisive step and stood under the roof, at Tom’s left.

Once there, Tom noted that now Harry was dry.

Tom looked up at him. This was their second encounter, something Slughorn told him that was practically unprecedented, except for Slytherin’s case. This meant that Tom would be the only other person to speak to the boy more than once. Elation fluttered inside him like butterfly wings.

“Harry.” Tom said slowly, as if unsure the other boy was actually there.

Harry cringed and glanced at him sideways.

“Yes?” he sounded wary and uncomfortable. Which was strange, as he was no longer wet. Tom went ahead to ask something that had been growing roots inside his head for a while now.

“How did you know my name, when we first met?”

“What?” 

Tom moved to stand in front of Harry and crossed his arms defiantly.

“You knew my name, that’s because you recognized me didn’t you?” he said without noticing the space between words shrinking at the increased velocity he was speaking “You called me Tom, you said I was familiar.”

“Did I?” Harry asked, his voice had risen in pitch at his sudden distress. He took then a step back, but Tom took a step forward

“You did! Don’t play dumb!” he inhaled deeply, the tip of his shoes almost touching Harry’s. He licked his lips, and he did not know how his expression looked like at the moment, but it must have been something intense “You knew my father, right? You’ve met him, and I look like him, right?”

Harry stared at him wide eyed, and his face crumbled into something incredibly sad.

Tom heard the rain stop again.

Harry fizzled out, and the rain resumed falling.

Tom’s heart had logged in his ribcage.

Disappointment clung to him like a cloak for the rest of the day.

*

It took weeks, and it took painful effort, but Tom managed to reunite whatever patience he possessed. And to his surprise, it was a lot. And focused on gaining his classmates and teacher’s trust.

He turned himself into “the nice helpful Slytherin” someone who gave aid to his classmates, someone who answered every question thrown at him, he played the paper of goody two shoes and he did it magnificently.

He could be charming, if he wanted to, he could play _nice_ , Tom sneered to himself, he could be that and more. The absolutely perfect student.

Some of his housemates were suspicious of him, and kept on treating him with thinly veiled disdain, but gave him a wide berth. Those who had seen him viciously retaliate to those who harassed him, and were impressed at his subtlety, merely raised their eyebrows in surprise and perhaps, amusement.

Professors Slughorn and Quayle were not shy in complementing his generosity, and were absolutely delighted to have Tom as a student.

They praised that Tom, despite his upbringing in the wild muggle world, could reach such academic excellence in such a short time; you couldn’t even tell he was raised by muggles!

They said _raised by muggles_ the same way Mrs. Cole had spat _raised by wolves_.

The boy who grew between animals can read! how delightful! Now, walk on your hands.

He burned inside, his rage simmered so close to the point of boiling, that he was surprised he had not exploded yet in a show of hexes and kicks and shouting.

Tom knew that if he made a mistake, any mistake, it would be expected of him. Although he proved himself superior at every instance available, he was still the Slytherin house’s pet mudblood. And to mudbloods, “magic just didn’t come easily”.

What had never come naturally to Tom was restraint, and yet he had been exercising it every day since he decided to rise above everybody by eventually making them his willing stepping stones.

He’d breathe in deeply to center himself inside his body and contain his hands from rummaging eye sockets and pulling hair, despite that he could almost feel the weird texture of an ocular globe, something he had never touched before, but he could vividly imagine.

That was muggle stuff. Muggles used hands and fists and weapons. Muggles broke bottles on corner walls and stabbed at each other under the soft morning lights in London.

Wizards use wands.

And he was a wizard.

And he could contain himself, he could push back the need to hurt, to tear and he’d plaster a smile on his face.

And when he did retaliate, no one would suspect him.

He was the nice Slytherin after all, the good one. The poor orphan with a dubious background, who despite all the obstacles in his way rose above others. Everybody attributed his accomplishment to all his effort, but that was not completely true.

Ever since Tom had been a child, the rules of his world had been different than those around them. And even now, his rules were at odds with the others’. Because Tom didn’t need to try, he commanded and his magic fulfilled; the world changed.

And the others tried, and they failed. And they took entire classes on making feathers float and transfigurating wood into steel, when Tom flicked his wand and matter obeyed.

So they came to him like moths, and he shone bright. And, after weeks of efforts, they grew to respect him. Albeit reluctantly in some cases.

Even Dumbledore, who was always looking the other way when Tom turned his pincushion into a hedgehog on his first try, and was bloody selfish with house points when it came to him, seemed to hold him in to high standards, acknowledging his prowess. 

As much as that was worth, in the end.

He didn’t like the old ginger goat; Tom knew Dumbledore didn’t like him as well. He wasn’t sure why, though. He hadn’t done anything to the old man, and it couldn’t be the first time he’d met a boy who took other people’s things, or that used magic before really knowing what it was. Or, probably it was the first time, though, seeing how stiff the other children’s magic felt when they tried casting.

Despite that classes were not godawful at all, wether the subject and its teachers, Tom found entertainment in it all. Slughorn and Merrythought were his favorite professors. The first for his blatant favoritism for those who proved themselves valuable, something Tom already did daily. The latter because of her competence and the subject she taught.

Tom loved Defense.

Professor Merrythought was old but moved fluidly, like a cat. The absence of stiff joints and a hunched back, or even a frail sounding voice jarred Tom even after months. He’d never met an old person who didn’t have at least one of those things.

Professor Merrythought was a witch, not a lowly muggle; he figured that that must have been the reason.

Last class, they practiced petrificus totalus on transfigurated animals. And now, on each other. Tom, of course, got it on his first try, paralyzing his classmate and rescinding the spell easily. The Hufflepuff boy that was his partner for the practical part of the class, Brian Taylor, had been trying for two minutes and failing.

“You have to mean it.” he said calmly, biting his tongue in lieu of saying something cruel “You need to have the intention for it to work.”

“I don’t want to, though.” the boy mumbled “It felt awful. I don’t want to do it to someone else.”

Tom breathed in, swallowing whatever snide retort he could conjure before it was even formed and said “You are learning to defend yourself, right?” Taylor nodded “I rather you know how to do it. Feeling uncomfortable for a while is not a big deal for me, as long as you can do it well when it matters.”

That seemed to do it. Taylor nods again, straightens himself up and with a firm voice he shouts “ _petrificus totalus_ _!_ ”

Tom wished he hadn’t said anything.

The spell comes with a chill that makes his muscle tense abruptly, immobilizing him. Tom thinks of frozen locks that the matrons at Wool’s had to force open by breaking them when the rust had stuck them closed.

It happened often, especially during winter. After several tries when it proved unyielding, Mrs. Samson had grabbed a rock and smashed it until it broke.

Tom lands on the floor with a dull thud. Taylor panics and it takes him five tries to perform the counter spell. Tom had never been claustrophobic, but he figured the feeling came very close to that.

He honestly preferred a severing charm to whatever that feeling was, of being prisoner inside his own body. Stiff, unbending things, were often the most brittle.

“Are you alright, Riddle?” Taylor asked him worriedly. He hears someone snicker at his back, he fights down a flush. Tom grins instead, carefully, to make it reach his eyes.

“Never better, congratulations.”

When Taylor smiles at him, Tom tries not to sneer.

The class ended without further hiccups, and Tom is thankful for it, feeling drained at his interactions with Taylor, who seemed to genuinely like him, and was so annoying in his earnestness.

DADA was always entertaining, it was dynamic. Tom was fascinated by every aspect of it, both practice and theory.

Tom wished that they delved into the dark arts aspect of it; it just seemed counterproductive to avoid teaching the things they are supposed to watch out for.

This brings doubts to him such as why are dark arts considered bad anyways? He wonders, why are they called dark?

Tom can’t ask his housemates without having them mocking his ignorance, he knows, and he feels he can’t ask either teachers or kids from other houses without raising eyebrows. 

Such are the disadvantages of being a Slytherin. People just assume you are after something or planning something shady.

Which was usually true, but it’s annoying nonetheless.

He debates speaking with professor Merrythought anyways, to clear his doubts, but decides on the opposite and stalks away without a direction in mind.

An hour before curfew, Tom found himself in an abandoned classroom on the third floor, the solitude of it was too tempting to pass, and it was evident that it had remained untouched for a long time.

He relaxed. Before, being with people could be fun, he particularly enjoyed scaring them, he liked to whisper things and see what they would do, he used to be free to get a rise out of them, to openly humiliate those that he was crossed with.

Now, he needed them to like him before he can even try to do much; he’s got to be good to them, and today, his quota of being a good person had been filled long before Taylor asked him to help him during the practical part of the lecture.

He was exhausted.

There’s some dust particles dancing on the low light, and Tom gets momentarily distracted by them, he used to play with them sometimes, when he was five.

It happens then: the dust stills to the point of suspension for a fraction of a second. Time halts, and then, continues.

He blinked, and there was Harry, standing near the window, studying the dust with shallow attention.

Tom stared at him, holding his breath in excitement, before letting go softly. The world was quiet outside the classroom and this sudden lull seemwd to stretch towards eternity. Tom was starting to suspect the other boy was not aware of his presence when Harry spoke.

“When I was a kid, I used to wave my hands and stare as the dust trailed after them. I didn’t realize that was not how it’s supposed to be. But then, it always seemed like the rules that made up my world were a little bit at odds with the rules that everybody else followed.”

 _Oh_ echoes inside Tom’s head, he can feel the blood in his veins accompanied by something indescribable _me too_ .

“Harry.” Tom greeted him stoically, ignoring his speeding heart. Harry nods at him, before letting his gaze wander the stone walls.

“This used to be a charms classroom, did you know?”

“I didn’t.” Tom croaked, suddenly noticing how dry his mouth was.

Tom’s mind drifts back to their previous encounter, and only the memory of Harry disappearing while wearing an expression Tom didn’t want to study further, stops him from asking again.

Tom, once again, exercises restraint. 

Harry looked at him oddly “What are you doing here, anyways?”

“I came to be alone. And practice.” Tom moved closer'' “Why are you here?”

“I’m not sure, now.” he hummed. “Sometimes I am somewhere and then I am there, but at a different when, if you catch my drift?”

What.

Tom blinked, irritated at Harry's attitude. He didn't let it affect him for long, prefering to focus in the buzzing thrill the meeting had provoked ar its beginning.

So, ignoring the nonsensical way the other boy spoke, Tom kept on talking. He'd been thinking about what to say to Harry if he ever met him again. He decided that he’d kept the flow of the conversation about Harry, and not him, despite his ever burning curiosity on how did Harry know him. It was not too difficult, he was also scorchingly curious about Harry himself. 

“I’ve read about you.” he started. “They say it’s extremely rare to see you, even more hold a conversation with you. And yet, I’ve seen you twice before, and I’ve talked to you just as many times.” Tom said, eagerly, eyes wide. 

Harry raised both eyebrows, bewilderment morphing into horror. He groaned as if in pain.

“Bloody shit, people know me?!” he moaned and rubbed his face with a hand. Tom noticed a strange scar there, it looked almost like cursive writing. He was not at the right angle to read what it said “Merlin, _why_ , even now?”

The bubbling feeling of tentative excitement turns into anger and Tom’s simmering with it. He clenches his fists and glares. It has no effect, since Harry is ignoring him now; his head hangs backwards while he lets a string of curses and rants in fast whispers. Tom’s ire turns slowly into confusion.

“You don’t know.” Tom states.

“Know what?” Harry snaps.

Tom can’t help but smirk slightly.

“That you are Slytherin’s Lost Boy.”

Harry stares, hands falling limply to his sides.

And stares.

“ WHAT” he hisses “I am _who’s_ lost _what_?” 

He looked outraged and honestly surprised. Wide eyed and gaping, cheeks flushed and scowling in something akin to offence. I was hilarious. 

Tom laughed, a tad mockingly, but overall happily. Which was rare in itself “You didn’t know! Oh you are dumb, aren’t you?” he snickered. “You have your own chapter in Hogwarts a History ! Albeit a short one.”

He kept on laughing until the silence he is met with makes his mirth die down. Harry was gawking at him intensely, and there was something strange at being held under his attention. Tom couldn't name the feeling yet, it was a curious sensation; completely unknown, but he was not sure he disliked it.

“You’ve read Hogwarts a History?”

Tom rolled his eyes and snorted impatiently. It felt like Harry refused to keep whatever line of conversation he starts “Obviously.” he stressed, crossing his arms. He is about to say something when Harry chuckles and stops abruptly, he clearly didn’t mean to. But it didn't matter, Tom heard it. “You are a mystery. But you don’t seem so mysterious to me. What are you? Some ghost, in color? And why do you disappear and reappear? Oh! And how was Salazar Slytherin like?” .

He’s standing closer than he was before, belatedly realizing he’s let emotion slip into his face. Harry shakes his head.

“You are an extremely curious boy, aren’t you.” he commented idly, answering none of Tom’s questions.

The thought of questions gives him an idea.

“Do you know why dark magic is considered bad? Why is it called dark?” he asked bluntly.

It’s seemingly in apropos of nothing, but he knew that being careless in this instance wouldn’t matter; Harry remained to be a myth for most people, so asking him would bring him no consequences, no mocking or unwanted scrutiny.

Harry eyed him warily, then, he seemed to consider his question. He sighs “Usually because they bring harm to the caster or-” his brow furrowed in thought “because of what they mean. Some are immoral to use, for their effects and how they work, I guess”

There were some flaws in that explanation, so Tom rushed to keep on talking before Harry could change the subject.

“I could combine a petrificus totalus and rictusempra to make someone suffocate, ” Tom argued, “why are they not dark? Is not being petrified harmful? It makes you defenseless. I could even call it cruel.” he almost spats.

Harry winced, and rubbed his nose “Yeah, you are right about that. But they are not lethal by themselves, are they? And, in magic is the intent that matters. I could petrify you just to be a twat, but I wouldn’t seek to harm you, not really, but,” he shifted “they are just things you cast, you know? You don’t want for other thing, but for them to happen as intended and no more. Dark magic is fueled by intent. And that intent is the desire to harm, to hurt..." he swalloed and eyed Tom "Ever heard of The Unforgivables?”

“No” Tom answered, enraptured. Harry sighed, tired. He did that a lot, Tom mused distractedly.

“Well, you’ll learn them eventually so I don’t see much harm in telling you.” he reasons to himself “They are called The Unforgivables because what fuels them is the intent to control, to cause pain, or to kill.” He paused; Tom is lost in his eyes for a second “I could kill you with a bad placed spell. I could accidentally inflate you like a balloon, and you could float to outer space and die, but my intent would not be to kill you. If I were to cast a killing curse on you, right now, it would not take. Because I don’t want to kill you as you are.” he said this last part softly.

“So, dying from common charms is usually by accident, and that’s what makes it different?”

Harry grinned “Exactly.”

So it’s not really as arbitrary as he thought. 

He accepted Harry’s answers easily, too easily. He was surprised to find that, for some strange reason, he felt too at ease with someone who is by all means a perfect stranger. But for some reason he couldn't help it.

There was something so odd about Harry, in the way he spoke and moved, and how the world around him looked, or on how he looked in contrast to the world. Like an oil painted person standing on a landscape of watercolors. 

Harry studied him, there was indecisiveness written all over him,“I saw your sorting; right when the Professor shouted ‘Riddle, Tom’. I’ve never- I haven’t met your parents. I’m sorry.” he murmured apologetically.

Before Tom could even say anything back Harry vanished again.

Tom stood alone again in the dusty classroom, feeling like he had been abruptly deprived of something he could not name.

*

It had been a week since the last time Salazar saw the boy, and that one time he didn’t even get to talk to him before he disappeared at the end of a dimly lit hallway. That time he looked very much the embodiment of an apparition than of a lost child.

Thankfully that time he had Helga by his side, and now he had her to vouch for him, dissipating all doubts in his colleagues. He’d be offended if it weren’t because Helga was known for being extremely honest, and him known for being an extremely good liar.

He ignored the hurt that came from not being believed by Godric, despite the years of friendship and blind trust, dismissing this feeling as childish. What he had told them had been quite the outlandish tale; a disappearing boy inside of anti-apparition wards, not a ghost or a shapeshifter. Leaving no vestige after his departure, not magic trace, no speck of dust disturbed. Nothing but Salazar’s testimony.

Salazar and Rowena had been theorizing on just how did the boy manage to blink out of existence one moment and appear at the other side of the castle weeks later without discernible pattern of when and where.

Except, and this is something he dared not say out loud, always somewhat in Salazar's vicinity.

The fourth time he met the boy, said child was staring out from a window. Salazar walked towards him slowly, hesitant in a way he had not been since he was a young man. The boy turned around, as if startled, even though Salazar was sure he’d been fairly silent while approaching.

 _“Good evening.”_ he greeted slipping into the language of serpents, sure that the boy would be able to understand like this. Neither he nor his colleagues were able to find what dialect the boy spoke with the few words he remembered from their first conversation.

 _“Hello.”_ he said uncertain, eyes flickering to Salazar’s locket; an inscrutable expression crossed his face. _“ You are Salazar Slytherin”._

A statement,

 _“I am”._ he agreed _“and who might you be?”_

 _“I told you my name once already”._ he mumbled, then wrinkled his nose _“I’d like to speak to Rowena Ravenclaw?”_

That was not what Salazar was expecting him to say. The boy didn’t seem at all awed to be in front of him, not even cowed, if not by his status as someone older and more intelligent, he should be then because Salazar was one of the four most powerful wizards and witches in the islands.

 _“And why is that?”_ he asked pleasantly, which seemed to irritate the boy

_“She is the most knowledgeable person alive or something, right? I need help from someone smart.”_

That was a rude way to compliment his colleague. She’d certainly find it amusing were she here.

 _“I am smart.”_ he didn’t say, mostly because he didn’t have the chance. The boy was gone once again, leaving him with the taste of nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to re-upload this ://  
> Next chapter: Harry makes Tom cry! Sort of


	3. First Year. 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, at chapter one: Okay! short chapters it is! nothing above 3k. So your adhd wont act up at the sight of too many words!
> 
> me, at chapter two: Very well, 3.800 words! a bit more than what I promised myself, but hey, i wasnt about to cut it? i dont want them to be too short.
> 
> me, now: *writes over 5490 words.* aw fuck.

_“We meet again. ”_

The boy made a disgusted sound, effectively erasing any pleasant mood Salazar had when he greeted him.

 _“Not you again.”_ He turned slowly, regarding Salazar coldly. 

Had Salazar been a lesser man, he’d have hexed the boy where he stood. But he didn’t even know if the boy was something he could touch, or how he would react to magic.

He swallowed whatever caustic retort he’d usually give his students and stared at the child stoically until he squirmed _“For fuck's sake, what do you want?”_ the boy snapped.

 _“To know who you are, why you are here, and how have you come to be here”_ he answered honestly, moving closer. The boy took a step back. 

_“I already introduced myself, didn’t I? And I don't know why I’m here!”_

Harry, the boy had called himself the first time they talked; a strange name, probably common in the place where the boy’s strange dialect was spoken. Harry's visage was pale and he was holding his arm tightly, a dark red liquid leaking through his closed fingers.

 _“You are bleeding,”_ at his voice, the boy held his wrist to his chest protectively, _“let me heal you.”_

They stared at each other for a long time before the boy winced and caved. He showed his wrist to Salazar, who raised his eyebrows in surprise.

 _“Those are bite marks.”_ he said as he waved his wand, the blood receded back into the wound, followed by the skin knitting itself. The mark seemed made by human teeth, too small to belong to Harry. Salazar’s eyes wandered up the boy's arm; his skin was littered with scars, he noticed, and wondered if the boy tended to search ways to hurt himself, or if he was just simply that unlucky. There was a gash under the bite, long healed and straight lined; the shape of it revealed that it had been made purposely by someone else. Salazar made as to touch him, slowly, not too conscious of his own movements

“ _What have you lived through?”_ Salazar mused out loud, fingertips a mere inch away from the recently healed wrist.

Harry took a step back and snarled at him, like a feral animal, and it should have looked at odds with his white teeth and handsome features, but the expression settled in his face with the sort of ease that is born of familiarity.

 _“Don’t touch me.”_ It was a warning. 

Salazar felt suddenly as if the air flow had focused on him, pushing him, and he took a step backwards, eyes never leaving the boy’s. They shone with the promise of hurt. It was perturbing to see the shade of the _death bringer curse_ in someone’s eyes, so focused on Salazar’s.

It was enrapturing.

_“Just who are you?”_

The boy vanished.

*

Tom had made it to the common room a minute before curfew. He didn't particularly like running, since he didn't like sweating. Cleaning charms were low on his list of spells to learn, but he might make an exception if only because of their convenience. He was sure he wouldn’t use them too much, for he used and abused the showers here at Hogwarts. The fact that he could shower whenever, and didn't have to wait for Fridays, the day he had been assigned at the orphanage, was one of the luxuries Hogwarts brought that he was reluctant to part with.

He had run wishing he knew a shortcut to the dungeons, he had yet not found any, too busy with classes and self-study to look around the castle. 

Inside the common room, most Slytherins sat around in places they had claimed as their own since their respective first years. Tom himself had picked a corner close to the windows. 

Near the center, he caught the sight of the Malfoy’s family heir, Abraxas Malfoy, a third year. His hair was brushing his shoulder, always at the same length no matter how much time passed, he sat in faux relaxation while he regarded everybody with a cold gaze. Except Tom, whom he didn't deign to even glance, and that was worse. He had a special place in Tom’s plans of conquest inside this little world that made up the Slytherin house.

Tom decided to forego the company of his fellow Slytherins and went to his bedroom. He ignored a passing seventh year that sneered at him. 

His room sadly was not empty. He entered and made his way towards his trunk, carefully picking apart protection spells he'd put on it before, putting inside his homework, and casting new protection spells on it. 

Tom followed the play of lights coming from the lake; his first night had Tom gazed through the windows of his room with open wonder, taking note of every shadowed figure that swum by.

The other boys never looked up, not since the first day where they merely took notice of where exactly their rooms were located. 

Not for the first time Tom felt ire at how the other children took it for granted. On how Lestrange plopped on his bed and closed the curtains, his snores quickly following after, the same as Allan and Virgil Rosier.

Bulstrode and Avery talked on low tones, helping each other with homework and giving Tom a wide berth.

It was irritating, how on every casual movement, on the way their eyes dismissed the display of blatant magic, it showed how _normal,_ how _common_ things like food appearing on their tables, or a mermaid tail flicking on the side of their vision was. The same as Tom would step on a cockroach without a second thought; they’d ignore moving paintings openly gossiping on the hallways.

So Tom, who had never opened his eyes underwater, marveled at the moonlight taking greenish colors while moving with the sub currents of the lake. He’d fight the urge to press his face on the glass and _stare_ forever, waiting for a tentacle of the giant squid to appear. 

He thought about said squid breaking the windows in and drowning them all. The idea of it was exciting, Lestrange would be asleep when it happened,he slept soundly even when Avery and one of the Rosier cousins played exploding snap. He’d take a calm breath and be drowning the second after.

Tom decided to research a charm that allowed him to breathe underwater. Just in case.

*

Christmas was nearing and with that, the bustling excitement of many children, who would not stop talking about going back to their homes. Tom decided to remain at Hogwarts for the winter Hols. It was not a harsh decision to make, he’d very much rather pull off all of his teeth with a rusty pincer than going back to London.

Only a couple of Slytherin’s stayed as well, those who openly and unashamedly hated their parents, for a variety of reasons. Martha Yaxley had loudly complained all year about her overbearing mother, trying to pawn her off as “Nothing better than a child bride to one of her uncles”.

“I mean, I would be more understanding of her decisions if I didn’t share so much blood with the bastard!” she had lamented a few days before, while sprawling on a couch; every ear in the common room pointed in her direction, unsubtly listening to her woes “or if he didn’t look like a starving erumpent!”

“Sometimes we reach a point in which endogamy becomes a bit excessive” agreed another girl without taking her eyes off her homework.

“Exactly! Does she want to be not only the grandmother of my children, but also their aunt?!” her voice raised in pitch, much to Tom’s chagrin, who was too, listening intently to whatever pureblood gossip he could grasp. It would do him no good to be behind on something that _everybody_ knew “Is she not aware that that will not grant her more control over whatever baby I manage to pop out?”

“What does your father think about this?”

“Dear Darling Darla-

“-Oh please stop calling me that-”

“-you know well enough that my father holds no opinion over a thing whatsoever! No wonder Mother married him” she sighed, before dramatically covering her face with her arm.

After that Yaxley changed subjects and Tom evacuated the common room, only to be stopped by Ronan Bulstrode. The other boy almost collided with him, barely stopping himself. Tom was about to take a side step when Bulstrode grabbed his arm.

“Riddle.”

“Let go.” bit Tom with a warning tone. Bulstrode did so immediately, showing his palms openly.

“Apologies. I wanted to talk with you.”

“About?”

Bulstrode coughed nervously “Would you partner with me from now on in potions class?”

“What about your usual partner?” Tom asked suspiciously.

“Marcus is just as hopeless as I am. So we agreed we’d partner with other people, and for some reason he’s a bit scared of you” he said this last part as if it was funny “I wonder why that is though,” _I made him eat a rat’s head transfigured as a biscuit,_ Tom refrains from saying “you are harmless.”

That’s what Tom wanted them to think.

Instead of snapping, he smiled pleasantly

“Very well, but you’ll owe me a favour.”

Bulstrode raised a thick eyebrow “Of course, what would it be?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” Tom hummed “Nothing too bad, I assure you.”

“Alright.” he nodded “See you later, Riddle.”

Tom inclined his head in response and walked away, out into the dungeons, in direction of the library.

*

Thanks to Tom, Bulstrode’s overall performance in potions was not as dreadful as it could have been. Slughorn saw through the real reason of their new partnership, but let it go with an amused quirk of his lips.

The winter holidays arrived and the students left the castle like an excited herd of black clad sheep one afternoon. Leaving no more than fifteen students to roam the halls, some of them orphaned and with no other place to go to -Tom ignored willfully the fact that he belonged to this group-, but most just poor enough that having them stay in the castle would be a relief on their families’ finances.

Tom not for the first time wondered how could there even exist poor wizards, but again kept himself from asking, fearing the answer was incredibly obvious.

Martha Yaxley of course stayed. When she saw Tom wander into the common room she studied him openly, head to toes, and he did the same, giving her a condescending expression at the end, which seemed to amuse her. They ignored each other for the most part after that.

Tom had not made friends yet, but he had managed to maintain his interactions to the other Slytherins polite. He didn’t really want to have friends, other children annoyed him to the point of violence sometimes, but it was necessary to have people who would vouch for him if push came to shove. Next semester he’ll make sure to change the open wariness and begrudged respect his year mates exhibited towards him, to hopefully, admiration. 

It was an improvement from the beginning of the year, from all angles. Nobody hexed him anymore when he turned his back or whispered snide comments over his lackluster breeding. Not to his face, at least.

He clenched his teeth at his thoughts, annoyance bubbling and completely unwelcome. He was supposed to have a good evening: today he was going to explore the castle; now that nobody could stop him he’d be free to find all of those rumored hidden passages. The emptiness of it was welcoming; its appearance was immensely more inviting.

Tom touched every suspicious looking brick he could reach, and moved every painting, amused when the gravity inside of the frame seemed to shift, and the people in it fell to the side, complaining and screaming.

He was examining an armour, standing on its sabaton, knocking on its helm, peering inside its visro, when he felt someone staring at him. Flushing, he jumped down back and turned abruptly to glare at his observer.

It was Harry, looking at him with a bemused expression.

“Whatcha doing?” he asked rasing an eyebrow.

“None ov your business!” he snapped instinctively, accent thick, heart beating fast.

A second later he registered his mistake. Tom shut his mouth closed, jaw taut, and stared wide eyed up at Harry.

Harry for his part was gaping at him like a fish, it lasted a second, then he snorted and started laughing abruptly. Tom felt hot from anger and embarrassment, and before he could stop himself, he kicked Harry on the legs.

“Ouch! "You little wanker!”

The kick had connected. Tom had assumed that Harry was some sort of mirage until that moment, not someone of flesh and bone.

Tom felt confused and incensed at the same time, “I can touch you? I thought' you were _in'angible!_ ” he shouted angry at his own incomprehension, his face redder, mortified again for his own faux pass.

And to fuel his rapidly increasing embarrassment, Harry began laughing again, harder than before. Tom kicked him, now in the chins. His eyes burned as he punched Harry in the ribs.

“Shit! Ouch! I’m sorry!” Harry said, still smiling “That was so unexpected that I-” he cut himself, staring wide eyed at Tom’s face. “Oh. Now I feel like an arsehole.” He mumbled, looking increasingly panicked “Please don’t cry.”

That voice he used, as if he was speaking to a mere child only added to Tom’s ignominy, fueling his temper, building it up onto a blown out.

“I’m not gonna cry!” Tom exclaimed, his voice breaking at the last word. He felt overwhelmed by the bitter feeling of humiliation, and so he kicked Harry again, and again. Somewhere in the back of his head he knew he was acting pathetically, punching and biting like a stupid child.

He felt firm hands on his shoulders, they remained steady until he stopped trying to kick at Harry and started to struggle for them to release him.

“Tom! Tom, I’m sorry.”

“Let me go!” He tried to push Harry away fruitlessly, he aimed to knee Harry’s groin but the boy stopped Tom’s knee with his own before he could get it close enough, Tom realized that Harry could hit him back if he wanted.

Tom tried to pull away desperately, losing control over himself by the second. Harry's voice was colored with panic when he spoke again.

“If I let go you are going to run aren’t you? I want to apologize, please.”

“I’m not going to run!” He denied, looking at the side for escape routes.

Tom could hear Harry talking to him but refused to listen. What would Harry say now? He had _mocked_ him, because Tom forgot himself for a second and now he probably thought Tom was a lowly street urchin, a dirty alley rat in the house of snakes. And Tom _hated_ him. Sod him, he hated him, he hated himself. He hated everything. Tom raged and kicked Harry’s stomach, he tried to bite his hands but his neck wouldn’t bend that much. The writs though, those he could reach. Tom sank his teeth viciously and drew blood. An electric current ran through him at the touch, but he ignored it. 

Harry cursed lowly, and while he kept one hand on his shoulder the one he’d bitten released him. Tom went to bite the one that remained and Harry pulled away quickly. Tom ran. He heard Harry call his name but he did not hear him follow. 

He stopped once he deemed it far enough of Harry’s reach. Tom notices a metallic taste inside his mouth.

He spits blood; Harry’s.

It disappears as it lands on the floor

Harry was gone, then.

That interaction with Harry ruined the rest of his day and night. Tom felt himself swelter in poorly concealed rage; it rouse with every inhale, and died out at every exhale. Yaxley raised an inquisitive eyebrow at how his magic seemed to flare up unexpectedly every few seconds, but thankfully she didn't speak to him. Or else Tom might have hexed her.

_He had been laughed at._

Harry once had mentioned the Unforgivables: the killing curse, Avada Kedavra; the torture curse, Cruciatus; and the will bending curse, Imperius. Tom had investigated them fascinated at their simplicity and at their efficiency, he burned with curiosity to see them in action. But the thought of Harry filled him with venom, acidic in his tongue and he knew that if he were to cast a cruciatus at him now, it would take, he had the necessary intent for it. Tom wanted to hurt him.

He hadn’t felt this humiliated in years. He hadn’t been made fun of like this since so long ago he could barely remember.

It was illogical, to feel as offended as he was. Harry was so magical, yes, and all their meetings had held a fragile dream like quality, but he was _nothing more_ than a fixture of Hogwarts. Just some idiot that had been probably cursed years ago and now flickered out of the ether against his will. Made famous just for his relationship with another famous wizard. 

What a joke.

He wouldn’t even give his last name. He was probably a mudblood and was too embarrassed to admit it.

Tom wondered just why Slytherin was obsessed with Harry, there was nothing special about him. 

Tom refused to pay heed to the voice that reasoned that if Harry was so insignificant, then why did Tom feel so strongly about it. Were it be anybody else that had mocked him, he knew he’d be consumed by cold anger, still like deep dark waters, until the beast hiding under it struck at the best moment.

Like he did with Avery. Like he did with Billy Stubbs.

Tom couldn’t stop thinking about Harry staring at dust flying in dim light with the same attention Tom gave it once as a child. The lighting scar was striking over his smooth skin, his hair ink black and so messy it must have been on purpose.

_Looking for something familiar._

_Found you._

Had Harry really just met him at his sorting and that was why he was familiar? It was rare indeed for Harry to appear more than once, so the fact that he appeared to Tom twice made him more familiar than anything else in Harry’s life.

How many people has Harry only ever met once, just to never see them again?

Harry’s existence was pathetic, and he ruined whatever good will Tom had for him. So now let him languish in loneliness, cursed to just one time meetings, forever walking amongst strangers.

Tom stalked the sixth floor with his wand concealed inside his sleeve. Still fuming, despite his best attempts at forgetting his meeting with Harry. The second he saw him he’d curse him out of the planet. Or maybe, he weighed, maybe he’d make him think he forgave him once Harry sniveled up to him. Then when he lowered his guard Tom would strike him, he could picture clearly his betrayed face, his surprise and incomprehension as to what was happening and why. 

Tom knew he could make him bleed with his teeth; he could do so much more with his wand. It was only a matter of time, only a matter of opportunity. 

Because Harry always appeared, he always came to him, and it’d be soon. 

There was a sudden heat at the back of his neck. Tom felt someone watching him. It wasn’t Harry, he knew, but he couldn’t think of anybody else that’d stare at him in silence for so long. So he turned around slowly, clenching his hidden wand, a fake smile flourishing on his lips. He looked up to his observer.

He met electric blue eyes, in an ageing face framed by auburn hair. Dumbledore.

“Professor.” Tom bit out, a heavy wave of disappointment fell over him, he felt sink himself into the floor.

“Mr. Riddle, exploring the castle I see?” he waited for Tom to nod before continuing “We agree then, that holidays are the best time for discovering Hogwarts mysteries.”

Dumbledore never spoke to him without a reason. Tom had half the heart to just agree with this and walk away and not participate on whatever subject Dumbledore wanted to discuss. 

“What do you mean, professor?”

Dumbledore smiled.

“Ah well! Haven’t you heard? The extra bed in the seventh years’ room had been flickering in and out of existence four times today!” He replied, his eyes twinkling in excitement “This year has been the one with the most appearances of the Lost Boy; nine in total!”

“I see.” he mumbled wide eyed. His anger at Harry diminishing and focusing on Dumbledore.

“I heard from Horace that you’ve met him once of those times, I must congratulate you.” He said kindly “It’s frankly a one of a lifetime thing to see him. I, myself, have never met him, nor in my years as a student or teaching at the castle. I was hoping that today might be my chance, seeing as he has deemed it to stay for so long," he touched his beard in thought, "who knows what the reason might be, perhaps he found what he was looking for all these centuries? Or perhaps he himself was found?” 

“Perhaps." Tom conceded.

"Wish me luck, then, Tom. And happy Christmas." He dismissed himself before walking away, radiating good mood. 

"Good luck." He spat out. Dumbledore was out of ear shot by then. But Tom remained in the same spot, his shoes glued on stone. The wand might leave a permanent imprint on his palm, tight as he held it. 

Of course Dumbledore knew; Slughorn had told him there was a register of it, and the old coot was Head of the Gryffindor house. _How_ hadn’t it occurred to him?

What was Harry doing?

Harry was _his_ secret. He met with Tom, and no one else. The mere idea of him meeting Dumbledore, of Harry smiling at the old man, answering his questions, giving away his secrets, his _name_ , with eyes free of the wariness that they granted Tom, made rage grow and flood his veins until his hands shook with it.

Them, meeting. Harry, Slytherin’s lost boy, meeting Dumbledore. He could see it, so clearly; Harry had been flaunting himself today, hadn’t he? Walking around the castle. Now that he knew one of Tom’s most embarrassing secrets, and now that Tom had hurt him, he probably was searching for someone else to charm, to be mysterious and magical to.

Oh but Harry would simply adore Dumbledore wouldn't he? Tom knew he would. They both were cryptic, and Gryffindors and they both stared at Tom as if his skin was made of crystal. 

Tom didn’t understand that what he was feeling was jealousy, not at first. It was something he had not felt in a long, long time. And it disgusted him, for him to be jealous of someone, of the mere idea of something, it was outrageous.

But Harry was his secret. He was the only other one Harry had met.

 _Looking for something familiar._ He had admitted sadly. 

_Perhaps he found what he was looking for all these centuries?_

_Found you._

_Oh._ He thought, and his blood stopped boiling. _What if Harry was looking for him?_

Harry had met him once before the owlery, so when he saw him there he had found something familiar; Tom. Then they met at the Viaduct Courtyard, thrice Harry had seen him, he was three times more familiar than anybody else in Harry’s life, barring Salazar Slytherin. 

But the man was centuries dead and Harry had probably spent alone just as long. Then, they met at an abandoned classroom, and finally the day before today. 

Harry was looking for that something familiar; for Tom. 

Which meant that Tom was special to Harry; he was the only thing Harry could hold onto. Harry needed him.

Harry had mocked him stupidly, but Tom could be forgiving. 

He smirked, feeling smug. 

Tom purposely walked towards the owlery, then the Viaduct Courtyard, he went to all the places he had met Harry. He had to see him before Dumbledore did, he had to find Slytherin’s lost boy, on purpose this time.

Harry would be so thankful.

Night arrived and with it curfew and Tom went to bed tired and frustrated. He gazed at the bottom of the lake before falling asleep.

He had woken early, grabbed a muffin for breakfast from the Slytherin table before running away. He ignored both Slughorn’s and Dumbledore’s knowing looks and amused smiles, unsettled by the idea of professors talking about him as if they knew what he was doing. 

They were not wrong about all of it; he was looking for Harry. But they were wrong about his reasons.

Tom wandered aimlessly, as Salazar Slytherin did once, many centuries ago. 

He concentrated on his magic, and ordered it to give him what he wanted. But it didn’t know how to call upon Harry, or guide him to where the boy would appear. Such a feat was impossible, since Harry’s appearances followed a set of rules that Tom was not -yet - privy to. He growled in frustration. 

Noon passed by, outside of Tom's awareness, focused as he was. 

It was nearing sunset when Tom walked through a hallway on the third floor level, leading to the clock tower. He had never been there before.

The pendulum mechanism caught his attention and he observed it intently and curiously, easily figuring how it worked. It seemed to get stuck for a moment, one second lasting longer than the other. Tom knew it wasn’t like that, he lifted his head; at the end of the hallway stood Harry.

They stared at each other. Tom’s heartbeat roused unbidden, and he held his breath a moment, he let it go, visible in the cold. He noticed that Harry’s was the same, which was fascinating; it betrayed the untouchable quality of Slytherin’s lost boy.

He remembered that Harry’s blood had felt warm on his tongue.

He was real, and he was here.

“Tom.” Harry breathed.

“Harry.”

The teen hesitated for a second “Can I get closer to you?” Tom eyed him warily before nodding. Harry made his way, his steps made no sound, but his robes did. They rustled softly, but seeming loud in comparison to the silence that encompassed them.

Harry gazed out of the window, a few paces away from Tom “I used to come here, to think. I liked to see the snow fall.” he confessed unprompted. Tom nodded again, watching him squirm at his silence. He felt vindicated at Harry’s discomfort.

Harry’s expression was pinched and his shoulder drawn, both hands at his sides. The scar on his forehead was more notorious in this lighting and Tom wondered distractedly how it had come to be. 

Tom felt the urge to run suddenly, uncomfortable by the weight of Harry’s presence. But the idea of it was discomfiting, so he just took a step away. He stood still, scowling, Harry was taking too long on asking forgiveness. 

He heard a soft intake of air. “I’m sorry, Tom. I didn’t mean to laugh, that was awful of me.” he seemed to struggle for words for a second before declaring: “And I’m embarrassed for doing it.”

Tom didn’t answer, concentrated on not showing his disappointment. He realized that expecting groveling had been too much, considering what he knew about Harry. Still, embarrassment was good, Harry should be embarrassed. 

They remained in silence for a minute before Harry spoke again.

“You were looking for secret passages, right?” he asked quietly. Tom ignored him “I can show you some.” he offered, soothingly.

Tom looked up to Harry’s green eyes. They were more vibrant than what his memory conjured all those times he thought about the other boy. He nodded.

“It’s the least I deserve.” he agreed, ignoring how soft his voice sounded “After all, you have been horrible to me.”

He crossed his arms expectantly and tipped up his chin.

Harry seemed a little bewildered and reluctantly amused. He bit his lips and nodded to their left.

“If you’ll follow me.”

He showed him how to arrive to the dungeons directly from the fourth floor using a stair hidden behind a tapestry “There are many stairs hidden like this, it’s not very original. They are dead useful, though”

He was met with Tom’s sullen silence, which unnerved him a little, judging by his openly pained expression. 

They wandered while he explained where to find a passage that opened on the third floor and led to the Viaduct Courtyard, warning him that it was a tight fit so if he was by any chance claustrophobic he better didn’t use it.

“Very well, Tom, we are now nearing the Hufflepuff common room” he said suddenly chirpily.

“You know where the common rooms for other houses are?” Tom asked with blatant curiosity. Harry grinned.

“Yes. But that’s not why we are here.”

“We are not breaking into the Hufflepuff common room?”

“I don't remember what barrel to knock on."

“What do you mean? They don’t use a password?”

“Nope.” he shook his head “Unlike the other Founders, Helga Hufflepuff had some imagination. If you don't know how to get in you'll get drenched in vinegar.”

“That’s stupid.” He frowned.

“I don’t think so; I think she knew exactly how children worked, I wouldn't want to try and get in if I didn't know exactly how to do it. To enter Slytherin and Griffyndors' common room you only need you to know the password, which can be easy enough to find out. What's more, entering Ravenclaw’s common room is not nearly as hard if you are smart. I’d have trouble getting in, I suppose. But maybe it’ll be easy to you”

Tom, who was not immune to flattery, asked eagerly “How so?”

“Well, there’s this statue of an eagle at the common room’s entrance. It asks you a riddle, and if you answer it correctly, or if your reasoning behind your answer is sound, it lets you in.”

“Huh,” Tom said “was Ravenclaw stupid as well?”

Harry snorted “You think everything that doesn’t fit your worldview is stupid." Tom magnanimously decided to ignore the tone in whicj Harry spoke "Ah! Here we are.” 

_Here_ was in front of a painting of a bowl of fruit

“Dead nature?” Sneered Tom. Harry shook his head and smiled.

“Entrance to the kitchens.”

After Harry tickled a painted pear, and said pear giggled in response before turning into a doorknob much to Tom’s befuddlement, they entered the hallway that hid behind the painting.

At its end awaited the smell of food and hundreds of the most hideous creatures Tom had ever seen.

“What are those… things?” he asked with clear disgust. Harry threw him a chastising look.

“House elves. They make your food and clean the castle.” Harry took a step forward and waving his hand happily greeted the creatures. 

They responded by falling all over themselves and calling him master, asking what could they do for him and Tom.

“I feel like having treacle tart and tea. What about you, Tom?”

Tom, too busy goggling at the things’ bat like ears, huge eyes, and servile demeanor, almost didn’t hear Harry’s question “I want eggs and toast, tea as well.”

They got offered a table and in seconds there was food in front of them. Harry asked the name of the elf that served them

“I is Wimpy, sir.” it said demurely. Tom scoffed at it’s name. Harry gave him a warning glance -that Tom ignored- before speaking to the creature.

“Thank you for serving us, Wimpy.”

The creature covered its mouth with it’s hand and gasped “Oh you are too kind, master!”

Harry just smiled at it fondly and thanked her again, making her weep. It was a nauseating sight, but he couldn't stop staring at Harry; during this exchange Tom saw himself bereft of the other boy’s attention, overly conscious of the ugly feeling boiling inside him and souring the experience.

“Why do they act like this?” He interrupted the exchange rudely, noting in satisfaction how the thing scrambled away. Harry turned to him and the ugly feeling died down.

“It’s their job,” he explained,“House elves bond themselves to a wizard family or to an institution, like Hogwarts, and serve them.” He frowned “it’s not... fair to them. Many wizards and witches take advantage of it and mistreat them.”

Tom knew that it was more likely than not that he’d take advantage of the elves behavior if given the chance, but didn’t say it, aware of what would be Harry's reaction to that statement. 

He enjoyed the meal, quietly and calmly, noticing that he didn’t find Harry’s presence nearly as intrusive as how he found other people's.

Harry walked with him halfway towards the stairs up to the ground floor once they were done eating, before disappearing.

Tom suddenly felt unbearably alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this will resolve some doubts!  
> I'm not all too happy on how it turned out, but I don't have enough brain to improve it  
> And oh yeah, cockney accent Tom!! I love that headcanon!!


	4. First year. 4.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shamelessly quotes something from the movies that I can't remember if it was in the books as well*

Remus was woken by a shriek. He jumped out of bed, wand in hand searching for a threat inside the dimly lit room. His vision blackened at the abrupt movement and nausea swam up like tides for all of two long seconds.

When his sight cleared he only found James jumping in excitement and pointing at an empty bed. 

"A fifth bed!" He exclaimed. "The lost boy is in the castle!“

“What even hour is it,” groaned Sirius with his head under the covers, there was some rustling and then he moaned miserably. “Bollocks, my arm is asleep. Someone!, bring me death.”

Peter had sat up, stared at them with tiny eyes from sleep, and then flopped back into bed, immediately snoring after. 

Absolutely no support from that front, then.

“Five in the morning,” Answered James far too loudly for Remus' tastes “Who's got the map? Pads, you got it?"

"I got it, " said Remus. He had again fallen asleep with his school bag on the bed and now the contents layed scattered around the ground, he crouched slowly to grab it and tossed the map to James, thinking that maybe he should just stay there. The stone floor looked suddenly so inviting.

"Gentlemen, gather 'round," James commanded. Sirius groaned again and did not move, Remus went back into bed without answering "Alright you hypocrites, it seems only _I_ care about mysteries and adventures anymore." 

“Been four months of nothing actually, Mr. Headboy.” 

"James you filthy liar, Evans got you by the balls," mumbled Sirius. 

“And by the heart!”

“Is very nice of her to share some brain cells with you,” whispered Remus, resigned now to the horrors of wakefulness. 

"What are brain cells." grunted Peter

"Cells of the brain." answered James while unfolding the map

"Oh, what are cells then." 

"Related to cell phones, I presume, " said Sirius.

"Sure," said Remus, too tired to even think about correcting him.

Sirius snorted and threw his covers to the ground dramatically.

“ _I_ have just discovered my love for you is completely conditional, Prongs. You’ve woken me up before sunrise way too many times, you have also drunk my juice when I wasn't looking. The _daring you have.”_

“That was _one_ time and the other times it was Remus and Peter and they blamed _me._ ”

“Lies, ” lied Peter

“That’s pork pie, ” agreed Remus

“Two against one, I need no further evidence,” said Sirius happily before gathering his thrown covers from the floor gracelessly, wrapping himself up with them, looking very much like a giant caterpillar, and crawling back onto bed.

James clutched his chest

“I have never been more _insulted_ in my entire life, or my past ones. By my own children no less!” he huffed dramatically before jumping on his bed "I remember _someone_ being obsessed about this particular legend for three whole years!"

Remus groaned in embarrassment 

"James, I beg of you-" he started. 

"It's 5 o' clock, prongs!" 

"We could solve a bloody centuries old mystery and you three-! 

"The bed disappeared." interjected Peter, sounding a bit too happy about it. 

Silence. 

"No!" whined James "I was so close. How could you all do this to me? You rotten children.”

*

Tom spent his last days of holidays haunting the library in hungry pursuit of knowledge, reading all the suggested lectures and the books quoted in them. He read and reread Harry’s chapter at Hogwarts a History, both pleased and disappointed at the fact that he had more information over The Lost Boy than every other person to cross his path. What all of the people who've seen him coincided in was that meeting The Boy was practically a once in a lifetime thing. Tom had already seen Harry five times. He had held long conversations with him, all of those times. He had _touched_ Harry. 

Tom hadn't needed to go out yet, he’d had enough fun inside the castle, looking into unused classrooms and discovering secret passages using Harry’s tips and advice he had given freely over their meal, and combined them with his own unrelenting perseverance. He didn’t leave tapestry without lifting or statue untouched. He only found five of them, but there were more, he was sure.

The prospect of exploring what he missed and finding more secrets guarded by the castle was almost as exciting as seeking for them.

When new year came, with its air of change and of heavy significance for Tom, he wandered around aimlessly, with the vague hope that maybe Harry would show up for him.

Tom could just about hear Harry’s voice, he could feel the heavy sensation of Harry’s eyes on him. He traced the dark cold and smooth surface of the wall’s bricks, pacing idly, waiting in growing anticipation for a familiar voice to startle him. For time to hesitate.

He felt stupid when the clock struck midnight, then one, and finally two and the other boy did not show up. It was idiotic, nonesensical, to feel this angry and betrayed, but he could not help it.

Tom turned twelve while wandering the dungeons.

After that, classes resumed and the castle filled with people again. It was vexing, having to share the castle with others, when in the few days he spent alone it gave him an illusion of privacy so real it was almost like it had always been like this; just him and his magic castle.

His room seemed about to burst when the other boys settled on their beds, and only the sight of the bottom of the black lake appeased the oppressive feeling of exposure. 

That first night he kept the curtains sealed shut with a spell, and pretended to be alone. 

The new semester brought some change in the previous dynamics with his classmates, and more importantly, house mates.

Both Rosier cousins were strangely subdued at the beginning of it, suddenly befriending Lestrange who in Tom’s opinion, was unpredictable, cantankerous and a bit touched in the head; not the sort of company that would attract the Rosiers. The three of them set out to keep the rest of the world out of their recently formed bubble.

It was an interesting development, the abruptness of it revealed that it must have been something out of their families initiative and not their own. He'd have to subtly interrogate his acquaintances for the happenings outside of Hogwarts during the holidays, happenings that resulted from the interactions and games of pureblood families, information that Tom had no natural access to.

Tom had abused the little gift Harry gave him; he’d been acquiring food at the kitchens where the creatures, _house elves,_ treated him like royalty. Which was a good enough reason to prefer them over his classmates, despite how distasteful he found them, despite how offputting he found their greyish pink skin and wrinkled faces. He could just order them to not bother him and pack food for him, which he'd later cast a preserving charm on. 

This had made Tom disappear far too often for someone’s prying eyes; And now, Avery was convinced he was up to something. He thought he was subtle when sharing his thoughts to Bulstrode, or with the searching glances he threw his way.

So Tom forced himself to spend time near his dorm mates to quench Avery’s unfounded fear, in case the other boy saw fit to do something about Tom’s nonexistent dastardly plans. He made a point of offering his aid on homework related issues, and gave guidance during classes. He did so openly, and other children from different houses flocked towards him as well. 

In some instances, he saw himself helping students from the years above of him. 

Tom had been pleasantly surprised when one day Martha Yaxley and Darla Flint hesitantly approached him and asked for his notes on charms, since they had to review for their Owls.

“We spent that entire year braiding each others’ hair, ” shrugged Yaxley, “funny how important turn out to be first year lessons”

“It’s almost as if everything they taught us after that was built upon the basics, ” drawled Flint.

Tom nodded “I’ve got no problem with that, ” after all, he had already studied in advance for the whole year and had memorized the lessons already. “I wish you the best luck on your OWLs.”

Both girls beamed at him and snatched his notes rudely. Yaxley belatedly shouted her thanks while running towards her room. 

A while ago, such display of presumptuousness would have infuriated Tom, now their conceit was a mild annoyance at best. He saw it as convenient. Arrogance was predictable, expected, easily manipulated. It was also a predominant trait on the purebloods that filled the Slytherin House.

He settled easily into the facade of someone helpful, and sometimes even eager to please. They viewed him as harmless and unobtrusive. And those more vocal on their distaste of his blood were drowned by the ones that saw the sheer convenience of having someone like him. Yaxley and Flint though, were not nearly as bad as others. Like Jonathan Crabbe, a fourth year, who all but demanded guidance on troubles he had performing in classes, completely ignoring the fact that Tom was in his first year and shouldnt have a clue about the fourth year’s curriculum. 

Of course Tom did know what to do, and resolved them easily. Calling upon his core, magic pooling inside him and flowing freely and endlessly. He hadn't needed to know much about theory, he could just _do._ Crabbe didn't have the brain for theory anyways.

It was rude, maddening at times, just how he and others took his help for granted, but Tom saw it for what it could become eventually: dependence. 

Bulstrode was befuddled by it. Avery was as well, but for different reasons.

It was comical, the way Avery flinched when Tom caught him staring. He had to admit that Avery had some self preservation in him. It had taken many instances at wool’s for the other children to reach this level of wariness towards Tom.

Lestrange thought it funny as well, and decided that now that Tom had proved himself to be not only brilliant, but delightfully vicious, he was good enough to associate with.

Tom knew that, had Lestrange been with Tom when he fed Avery rat heads, the boy would have laughed.

There might be some merit in having him around, Tom mused after Lestrange unilaterally decided them to be friends, despite Tom’s suspicious blood ancestry, and dragged the Rosier cousins along with him.

“I reckon it’s impossible for mudbloods to enter Slytherin, you know, ” Lestrange reasoned, feet propped up on the sofa, “You are at worst a half blood. And we aren’t getting married so you won’t sully _my_ blood.” he grinned tootily, as if he thought that what he’d say next was very clever of him “It might prove advantageous to me, academically, to be associated to a little swot like you.”

“Do you always give out flattery unprompted?” Tom asked with barely concealed irritation.

Tom thought that it was probably that Lestrange just liked him; he had laughed rather ungracefully last time Tom had wandlessly and discretely tied the shoelaces a couple of Gryffindor fourth years that wronged him at the beginning of the school year when they were walking down the stairs; and this was the reasoning he’d give to the others if they ever questioned him on his associations.

It was when Tom was at his most caustic that Lestrange seemed the most delighted. Little things, all in the common room, when Tom let his sharp tongue out like a whip and flung it at whomever tried to insult him. 

Having someone to openly speak shit about Dumbledore with was worth the condescendence, at least for the moment. If Lestrange didn't stop soon enough Tom would probably just push him off the astronomy tower.

Allan and Virgil Rosier were not as excited to strike a friendship with Tom at first, but soon enough got over whatever held back they had. As the weeks went by they began to open up and speak freely. To, unfortunately, the point of never shutting up; specially Allan, who made a point of bragging about travels his family had made onto the magical communities around the world. He spoke of things that in the muggle world Tom knew would be addressed as miracles, and about the escapades of him and his cousins from the french branch of his family. The first Tom listened hungrily although stoically, the later he barely paid attention to. Sadly the last part was the one that Allan loved talking about the most.

Virgil Rosier rolled his eyes at him, and busied himself with daydreams. The way he made his leg jump when he was seated got on Tom's nerves. Virgil was never still, and he never followed the flow of conversation. But it was preferable at Allan’s constant chatter, even if Tom had a _petrificus totalus_ ready to lash out from his lips when Virgil’s fidgeting got too unbearable 

It had been two months since Harry’s last visit, and Tom was growing faintly distressed at the idea of him not coming back. He wasn't sure why; Harry always appeared to him.

Harry needed him. The whys and hows did not matter at the moment, for it was the first time someone had needed Tom like Harry did.

Tom had always envisioned being wanted and admired and envied, he saw need as a weakness and the idea of being needed undesirable. Yet Harry’s need was born not of frailty of character but out of extenuating circumstances, and Tom knew he was special to Harry. He must be so, so special to Harry. Unique.

It was intoxicating to think about it. He wondered what sort of power he had over Harry. This was a new situation for Tom, completely unexplored. Had it been anybody else though, Tom knew his elation wouldn't be as strong, or even exist at all.

Tom couldn't help to compare other students to the way Harry moved, to the way he spoke. So different the world tasted in his presence, the way it felt reality gladly made a space for him to rest every time Tom saw him. 

*

Bulstrode had been warming up to him, addressing him freely in and out of the common room and taking his side at meals. Avery remained cautious, but quietly trailed after his friend. Tom knew he eventually had to address that. He couldn't keep counting on Avery's shame to keep the boy's mouth shut. 

There were more pressing matters, though, than Avery's growing restlessness. 

At the library Tom caught sight of Bulstrode easily. The boy was hunched over an enormous tome that was almost as big as his torso, his nose almost brushing the paper.

“I come to collect that favor. ” Tom sat in front of Bulstrode, enjoying the other boy’s flinch at his sudden appearance.

“Sure, Tom. What would it be?” his voice cracked and he winced, then he visibly tried to compose himself. 

“I need some potion ingredients. You will make sure Slughorn doesn't notice, and if I fail to acquire them, either because of lack of opportunity or availability, you will provide them.”

“That sounds rather complicated,” he said, dubious “I reckon that what you did for me didn't hold that many stakes?”

Tom clenched his jaw. Anger spiked and dwindled in the space of a second “It is if you take in account the length what I did for you lasted; lasts, still. Tell me, Bulstrode, are your promises worthless?”

The boy frowned “Of course not, but-”

“Are you, then, so unskilled that you can't even tell me when Slughorn is showing us his back? or do you doubt your capacity of acquiring menial potion ingredients?” he said smoothly “I asked you specifically because I believed it that if anybody had the capacity to help me, it would be you.” he stated down at him, radiating disappointment. Bulstrode bristled. 

“Of course I can! It’ll be easy, won't it?”

Tom smiled. 

“Surely.”

It was March when he met Harry again. 

In the humid heat of the greenhouses, while Tom carefully extracted leaves and flowers from the plants that messily lithered the tables. 

Tom was there under the guise of examining his herbology project, since his plant was sick and needed constant check ups to keep the illness from spreading further.

It had been Tom the one to make it sick in the first place, so he'd have the chance to manipulate it after lessons and outside of Professor Beery’s supervision, who could not be bothered by having to keep an eye on such an exceptional student, there was no need of course. Tom would never dare to break a rule. 

Tom cut off the tender leaves, spreading them neatly on a piece of cloth, rolled it closed and put it away with the others. 

The hair at the end of his neck stood up. 

"Harry." he whispered and turned around slowly.

Harry was leaning over some of the Professor's projects, fingers ghosting over a sleeping venomous tentacula. Tom’s heart leapt in sudden anxiety; he remembered the feeling of Harry’s skin giving away under his teeth so easily; a testament of the other boy’s fragility and life. 

Was Harry unaware of his own vulnerability?

Where had he been for so long?

“Oh, it’s you.” Harry’s voice was detached, completely lacking in emotion, his focus solely on the plants. 

Tom huffed and reached Harry in three long strides. He brusquely grabbed his wrist and pulled him away, making him stumble. Harry's heat warmed up his palm and Tom felt the boy’s pulse under his skin slowly pick up. Harry tried to pull away but Tom pulled back towards him, his grip firm like manacles. 

“ _What_ do you think you are doing?” Tom snapped. “And where have you been?!”

The teen blinked in bemusement.

“Well if you are this happy to see me then I ought to come more often.”

“Then why don’t you!” Tom gritted out.

“I can’t control it, Tom.” he scoffed, as if Tom was asking for something entirely ridiculous. But Tom knew it was a lie. Dumbledore had told him Harry had appeared four times the same day when he was looking for Tom.

He decided to change subjects, lest he explode in Harry's face. He released Harry’s wrist and crossed his arms petulantly.

“Have you been cursed?”

“What?”

“I've been investigating, and I'm sure you were cursed. A very powerful curse, so I guess you wouldn't know how to undo it,” he snorted, disdainful. Harry raised both eyebrows, then his expression morphed to irritation “It’s obvious whatever happens to you is not by accident.” he explained quickly. 

Harry bit his lips and glanced to the side. He coughed awkwardly.

“Erm, actually...”

Tom bliked at the boy’s silence.

“God- _Merlin!_ did you really?” 

“It is the most probable reason, yes.”

“How incompetent are you?!” 

Harry huffed.

“Why are you being a little twat?”

“Because you are so frustrating!” Tom exclaimed. Nothing ever happened the way he planned with Harry. The other boy was never forthcoming, he never acted like Tom thought he might or should. Harry stared at him incromphently, with that stupid face he used sometimes when Tom lost his cool. 

“Oh, so you wanted to see me. That's what you meant?” Harry asked as if he knew he was wrong, but had to ask anyway.

Tom flushed and clicked his tongue “It’s in your head, you are cursed and gone mad.” he stated.

Harry laughed, it was a short sharp laugh “That's actually the most likely hypothesis I've got so far, ” he admitted, hopping on a table, unbothered by the plants he pushed away and sitting on it. He leaned over “How long have you known me, Tom? how many times have we met already?”

“Without counting the sorting? five times that I recall, ” Tom replied smoothly. 

“Five?”

“Yes, did I forget to account for something?” 

Harry was silent for a while, studying Tom. He closed his eyes slowly and sighed, as though relieved of a heavy weight. “At the owlery, at the entrance courtyard, the old charms classroom, when I… when we fought, then we ate at the kitchens, yes?” he listed slowly. Tom nodded. “Okay. I get it.” he seemed to wither, withdrawing into himself. He frowned, pensive, sad. 

“What do you get?” Tom asked softly, slowly walking closer.

“Some of the rules of my… curse, I suppose. I should have guessed.”

“Guessed what?” he was almost touching Harry’s knees. Tom realized that barring their altercation last December, this was the first time he’d been this close to Harry. He hadn't noticed before, but Harry always made sure to keep some distance between them. That was something Tom always did as well with everybody, so he had not been aware it was done to him.

“I mean, I've just seen the Fourth Triwizard Tournament in history, you know? it was a bloody, gory thing.” he gave a raspy joyless laugh “You'd think the pureblood mania would keep them from allowing their heirs into dangers, but the magical community is frankly so stupid.” he smirked with a cruel twist of lips. At least, it seemed cruel to Tom. 

Tom took a step back in sudden outrage“It’s not stupid!” he deffended.

Harry scoffed disdainfully

“ _Of_ _course_ you don't agree with me.” he threw his hands in the air “Who do I think I’m talking to?!”

“What is better then, the _muggles_?” Tom spat with derision. 

“Yes!” Harry shouted “They don't put their children in danger, they have —they have laws for this sort of thing.”

Tom laughed mockingly before glaring.

“I don't know what _muggles_ you’ve met, or what lies you’ve heard.” he hissed, voice raising with every word, every one more bitter tasting than the later. “There are no laws! They don’t care! nobody does!"

“They do!” argued Harry.

“No they don't! they don't! none of them do, they’ll just walk all over you! You don't know a single shite about them!” Tom raged, relieved his voice didn't break. He inhaled deeply before confessing in a calm steely voice “You, all of you, think them harmless, think them like animals. And they _are_ , but not how you think they are. And I hate them, I wish they’d died, all of them.”

Harry flushed in anger, his nostrils flared and Tom knew that look, he knew what would come after. He seized his wand inside his pocket and waited for Harry to strike him.

But Harry did not move. Tom observed him warily; his body was taut, coiled and still, then it relaxed slowly and purposefully. His eyes never leaving Tom’s face, and draining slowly of the fight that made them flare in anger before.

Harry breathed in through his nose, visibly calming himself, closed his eyes and said “Okay, maybe.”

Tom blinked and released his wand.

“Wha-? I mean, pardon?” 

Harry smiled sadly at him.

“They both, sort of, don't care much about children, don’t they?” He shrugged. Tom stared at him increduly, while he thought of Avery’s mother sending him treats, he thought of Rosier’s tales of their family trips. Harry seemed to read his mind because he added quietly “They don't care much about children like us.”

Something weird began to grow slowly inside of Tom, settling behind his ribcage, unnamed. Then “What do you mean?” he inquired softly, eyes fixed on the Gryffindor emblem on Harry’s robes.

“Unwanted kids, weird kids, different kids; vexing, inconvenient, that don’t fit where and how they want them to fit.” He gritted lowly, angry at someone else Tom couldn't see. “That they think they can use and abandone freely because they don't know any better.”

Tom felt flayed open, vulnerable. It struck too close to home, he thought back to a time when he was less shrewd. He thought back to the days before Dumbledore appeared at his bedroom door, looking ridiculous and about to change his life forever.

“I hate them.” Mumbled Tom. He traced the hem of Harry’s sleeves slowly, flattening the wrinkles that formed under his thumb. He felt Harry tense but ignored him, he knew Harry would have pushed him if it was unwelcome. Eventually Harry relaxed, albeit not entirely. 

He stared at Harry's hands. The long fingers, the callouses that revealed the constant use of a broom, the constant grip of a wand. Burn scars, short nails. Not at all like a creature of legend, but of a wizard. Real, alive, and cursed. 

Tom knew then that he’d remember this moment forever, that he’d recall vividly the tranquility of the green houses, the smell of wet dirt and of the multiple weeds and plants that professor Beery grew in a disorderly fashion, the faint scent of what he thought were invisible lilies. Alone together with Harry, sequestered from the rest of the world; the moment when he felt, for the first time, understood by another person.

“You are so angry, aren’t you? all the time.” Harry whispered kindly. Tom nodded, downcast “Me too." he sounded exhausted “I hate them, sometimes.” he admitted, so quietly. It felt like a secret, like Harry was trusting him with something terribly important.

*

It was as if suddenly the world had drained of color the moment he stood outside the platform 9 ¾ .

He clenched his jaw and, dragging his luggage after him, Tom made his way towards the orphanage. A matron, Ms. Bordeaux, greeted him unwillingly, never meeting his eyes. Mrs Cole was nowhere to be seen.

Ms. Bordeaux guided him away from where he knew his room was. They had forgotten he'd be back, she explained, and he had to share room with other children for the moment. A pregnant girl had come and taken his old quarters, where she’d remain until she gave birth.

“I need a place for my trunk.” he commented, irritation punctuating his words.

“You may put it in the attic, then.” 

He couldn't use magic outside of Hogwarts, or else he’d be expelled. He couldn't even charge his words with compulsions because the ministry would know if he did. He had thought that Hogwarts would be the ultimate test for his restraint, he had been wrong. 

An older girl stopped him on his way inside, he had made it just before the Matrons closed the gates for the night. Tom had not missed London at all, had forgotten the smell of it, and the noise but it was preferable to the bleak walls of Wool's. The girl was not much taller than him, string thin, except for the voluminous bult on her stomach. He knew exactly who she was, then.

“Are you new? I've never seen you before. My name's Jane.” she asked smiling tentatively at him. 

“I’m no’ new,” he muttered moving to the side “You took my old room.”

“ Oh so you are 'ha' Riddle boy! is 'ha' really your name?” she trailed after him.

“Yes.”

“Funny that. Weird name, could 'ave bin worse I suppose. I once met one bloke named Colin Asscrack.”

“I don’t care.” Tom walked faster and ran up the stairs, effectively leaving her behind.

“You are one really rude li''le dustbin lid!” She shouted at his back, sounding amused and Tom really wanted to kick her on the stomach. Maybe it would pop. Like a bubble.

*

He took to either locking himself in the attic to avoid other children and Jane —lest he lose his temper at them, and doing something that could get him expelled from either Hogwarts or Wool’s—, or wandering the London streets. He often opened his trunk, felt blindly for his wand under the dim light, and pulled it out just to feel the warmth of it, more reassuring than anything else he had on himself. Leaving it inside it felt almost like leaving his hand or his entire arm inside his trunk, but he couldn't afford to lose it or break it. He had so few things, and his wand was the most treasured of them all.

He took out the leaves and flowers he collected from the greenhouses, and other ingredients that Bulstrode had helped him acquire his last semester at Hogwarts, and with extreme care and a liberal use of the kitchens when it was his turn to help in them, he started to brew.

That summer was proving to be the worst in years, because he now knew what Wonderful Things actually were; they were made of an ancient and magic castle, of the colors green and silvers and of Harry appearing at his back when he least expected it; now that he had experienced them, the hours dragged painfully one after the other.

Now the control he had over the children of Wool’s felt rather like a pathetic thing. There was nothing magnificent about having insects run away from the sole of your feets. He was restless and constantly angry.

When he felt the walls closing in and the mere presence of muggles made his skin crawl he’d make his way onto Charring Cross, hiding in corners of the Leaky Cauldron so the bartender wouldn't kick him out, or worse, stop and chat with him.

He’d enter diagon alley and wander and memorize everything around him, some shop owners took to greeting him, some sneered down at him. 

Tom peeked curiously at Knockturn Alley, before turning back onto the main street.

He wondered if Harry was thinking about him, if he was roaming the castle or if he was lost wherever he went to when he vanished. 

After Jane had her baby and Tom got his room back, she started to work at Wool’s with the other matron, helping with the younger kids, the meals and the cleaning. Since she hadn't been there for Tom’s more unsavory moments, she didn't fear him and often tried to chat with him like she did with other children, almost always with the newborn in her arms.

Thankfully there weren't many babies around. Jane’s was already too loud.

It took Tom three weeks and many impromptu visits to the attic, but he successfully brewed a concoction that caused forgetfulness on whoever smelt the fumes. He poured a bit on himself in lieu of cologne. Now when Msr. Cole or some other matron approached him, they forgot why they were there and left him alone.

He had to chew on leaves of moly three times a day to contrarest the effects of the concoction, but it was worth it for the peace it brought him. 

He brewed as well some hallucinogens, and sold them on the streets, saving for his new year at Hogwarts; the extra money would help him acquire better robes. He didn't have time to make a proper business out of it, but hopefully word would spread for the next year. 

He took care that the concoctions had no magical after effects, so the ministry of magic wouldn't detect anything amiss. 

The muggles, like the mindless beasts they became when they tasted something they liked, bought it all more quickly than he could prepare. And again like beasts, some of them trashed him when he told them there was no stock, unaware that it was him the one preparing them. 

“You li''le shite,” growled a muggle, with his rancid breath on Tom's face, and fists seizing Tom’s shirt “you tell ‘em, tell ‘em, you better-”

Tom kicked the muggles’s crotch. The man released him and cursing grabbed his groin, he tumbled to the floor and Tom saw hatred on his beady eyes. 

Tom made to run, but turned around and jumped on the man's leg. The crack of the bone breaking echoed on the walls and the roof of the bridge. The man howled in pain, and the sound seemed to come from everywhere, like thunder. The muggle cried and raged, tearing his throat. 

Tom walked away.

One day, one day he’ll sell them poison, slow acting and painful. One day he wouldn't even have the need to sell them a thing.

One day he’d come back to this place, to these streets, and he'd leave nothing but death at his wake. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are done with Tom's first year!!! Hopefully the second will be shorter


	5. Second year. 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh I'm sorry about the typos I missed

2.

The books he had ordered had arrived a few weeks ago, and Salazar had spent every night pouring himself into them. He researched space magic; the physics of apparition, now he even had a complete and profound understanding of the arts of warding. He had even studied what was known of elven apparition.

It consumed his time of leisure, and his friends were not silent about it. Godric had advised him to take it easy, to use that extra time he spent not in classes how it was meant to be spent; having fun, relaxing. Helga gave similar advice. The only one that understood that sheer need to know was Rowena, who joined him in his research binges, delighted in the mystery of it all, although not with the same motives as his.

Had it not been that Salazar’s predictions had come true, and more magic children were arriving, he’d have spent even more time in research.

Some Pureblooded families, after learning that he'd not tolerate dirty blood mist his ranks, decided to send their spares under instructions to convince him to take them. Salazar did, of course, unless the child was frankly hopeless. 

The way they spoiled their children, it killed any cunning that they might have been born with, so used to getting everything they wanted delivered, they hadn't ever even _thought_ on how to achieve something. 

On those occasions he told them plainly and coldly to leave the school or find one his colleagues to take them. Most went to Helga; she took in the talentless, the angry, the poor, the ambitious yet dirty, the brave and dishonorable, the curious but not witty. 

Dear Helga was thriving as an educator and caretaker. Many students loved her more than they admired her. Even students from other houses. 

For his part, Godric was often restless, not made for such an unexciting life, but he was overall so happy at the results his students achieved, that he didn’t seem to mind the lack of dangerous adventures. 

Rowena was more of a scholar than a teacher, but she managed. It was endearing to see her students trailing after her in hallways, like ducklings, asking questions as they would in a classroom and Rowena answering all of them seriously. 

Salazar had low patience for fools, and children were nothing if not foolish, silly creatures, but it was rewarding to mold minds, to be regarded in admiration, to share what he knew. Despite his predictions, he had come to love this little project of theirs; he'd make this school succeed whatever it cost. 

  
  
  


Months had passed before he saw Harry again.

A powerful, raw magic had filled the air, invading it violently like a storm wind. Salazar had run towards its source with his wand ready to attack, the only one awake at that hour, ready to annihilate whatever danger he’d find.

He found no such threat. 

It was that boy. 

The boy was screaming, raging, he was kicking at a wall and pulling at his hair as he howled like a wounded animal. The dust from the stone walls was floating suspended, vibrating, almost looking like a veil.

It was an amazing sight. Salazar recognized it for what it was; accidental magic born from distress, and he feared the boy might hurt himself, or a passerby, if he continued, so he spoke loudly and clearly, concealing his wand as to seem nonthreatening. 

“Harry.”

Harry whirled on his heels, his eyes held a manic glint, his hands were shaking. Salazar felt danger and pure undiluted power coming from the boy. 

His arm hair rose, a chill ran down his spine.

Harry blinked at him, panting, for a second he didn’t seem to recognize him. Soon enough his eyes cleared. 

_“Oh, oh, I'm here.”_ the boy mumbled his voice rough from screaming. Salazar felt unsettled at those wide eyes _“It’s you, it's early times."_ he laughed “ _Has Merlin arrived yet?”_

_“Are you ill?”_

Harry giggled.

_“Maybe? I haven’t slept”_

That was worrisome. 

Salazar enunciated his next words as carefully as he could. 

_“if you need a place to do so, I could-”_ he was interrupted by the boy.

Harry growled, the dust still floating froze, then chaotically moved in every direction, like a small hurricane inside the castle. The paintings shook and many fell, the people inside them screamed and disappeared from their frames. Salazar couldn’t move.

 _“I CAN'T SLEEP”_ Harry shouted, it was a heartrending sound _“I DON’T SLEEP. I don’t-”_ his voice broke _“I don’t remember the last time I slept.”_

The boy’s eyes were wet and Salazar’s heart stuttered at the sight, he didn’t know what he should do, or what he wanted to do. He hadn’t felt this unsettled since his late wife had started to show the first signs of illness. A child in distress should not be as upsetting as someone passing out mid speech, and yet.

 _“I can help you”_ he promised, trying to convey with his tone how serious he was about it _“I can help you sleep, I’m one of the most powerful wizards in the islands, if anybody can do it is me.”_

The boy’s eyes filled with hope and his face crumbled.

Harry laughed, not mockingly, not joyful; it wasn’t much of a laugh, really, as just some sound escaping from his throat. He hid his face in his hands.

He vanished.

It had been many years since Slazar had felt so powerless.

*

There were the strangest horses pulling the carriage, hairless and skeletal with bat-like wings and vaguely reptilian features. Tom’s heart skipped a beat at their horrifying sight but his steps did not falter as he got on the carriage. No other children were making a fuss about it, so he was sure this was common place.

"Ugly things aren't they” he commented lightly at his companions. Bulstrode frowned in confusion.

“What is it?”

“The horses” he clarified, nodding towards them. The carriage began moving while Avery was still standing. The movement made him lose equilibrium and fall on his arse, he squealed but nobody paid attention to it. 

“You can see them?” breathed Lestrange with interest.

“Yes”

“I don’t get it” grumbled Bulstrode, moving a bit further away from Lestrange, who smiled widely.

“Those,” he started dramatically “are called thestrals, they are omens of death, and only those who have seen someone die are able to see them, Tom,” he looked at him expectantly “Who have you seen die?”

A man stabbed on the streets. An old matron asleep on a sofa, her chest stilled forever after one last exhale.

The sight of freshly removed dirt, darker than its surroundings, while Ms. Morrison wept loudly. Billy sneezed behind him, spraying his neck with spit. Tom turned around and punched him. A few minutes before sundown.

The sudden earth shattering realization that _It could have been him there_ echoing in the walls of his head. 

“That's none of your concern”

*

Tom took to wandering through the halls the moment he was alone, taking the longest path towards the library or the common rooms in hopes of seeing Harry again. It had been two months too long, made eternal by being reduced to live like a muggle, and he needed to see him. 

After their meeting at the greenhouse Tom caught sight of him a couple more times, mere blinks, where he’d see Harry at the edge of his vision a second and then he’d vanish the other. 

He had noticed that Harry always came to him when he was alone, which was a pity, because now he was almost never alone. 

Such were the consequences of being liked. 

Lestrange had taken to trail after him, dragging Virgil Rosier along, now blatantly and stubbornly trying to establish a real friendship and not just out of convenience as Lestrange had put it months ago. And if not them, it was surprisingly Avery who followed him around, making some clumsy attempts at conversation.

He still flinched if Tom looked at him a certain way, but he had not shown any other sign that he was still thinking about Tom’s little prank in first year.

Avery kept on receiving biscuits but he never ate them anymore, looking pale every time his mother sent him a box. Instead he gave them to professor Slughorn, who received them happily and without questioning.

*

“Did you finish your essay? Can I copy it?” came Virgil’s voice from over his shoulder. Tom heard him enter the library and walk towards him, but he had not noticed just how close to him Virgil had come to stand.

“No.” he threw the chair back when he stood up, effectively hitting Virgil’s stomach. The boy yelped. “Knowing you, you’ll even copy my name instead of yours.”

“No I won't!”

“Didn’t you deliver your transfiguration essay as Allan Rosier last week?”

Virgil flushed as he spluttered.

“I got confused! I was focused on writing and I saw Rosier at the top and thought ‘oh that sounds right’, but I-!” he jumped and grabbed at his butt, he turned to glare at the librarian who had not lowered his wand yet after the stinging hex he had sent.

“You can use the books I used” Tom decided before Virgil ran away to write to his parents about the library staff’s abuse of innocent students “I can write what chapters have the necessary information, Virgil.”

Virgil pouted still rubbing his rear, but conceded “Alright”

It was easy, it was so amazing, how they did not doubt a thing he said. They came to him for guidance and did not abandon him when he denied them; they were starting to see his value. Slowly, painfully so, yet satisfying.

*

As weeks passed, he made sure to establish more connections with children from other houses, taking into account the most open minded and popular for this task.

It was not so hard with both Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students, free as they were of the traditional Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry.

After Herbology Tom drifted away from the Slytherin group and addressed a Ravenclaw Halfblood by the name of Sofia Kuznetsov, who always remained behind after class because she was fastidiously organized and slow to clean up her table.

When she saw him she smiled “Riddle!”

It was strange and unwelcome to be received with such cheer by someone he had spoken a handful of times to. It was expected, though, at this point in his school career.

Tom smiled charmingly back at her.

“Kuznetsov,” he greeted “may I have a word with you?”

“Sure. Hold on, yeah? let's walk together to the castle.”

“Alright.”

Kuznetsov had unbraided her hair when she was done and surrounded her neck with it, as a faux scarf. Tom slowed his pace to march hers before speaking.

“Your mandrake, it was the only one not screaming” he prompted. Tom didn’t care a lot for herbology, but he didn’t hate it. This class had made him reevaluate that opinion.

The girl smiled widely at him “You noticed!” she giggled “I was proving my hypothesis; I was, as you saw, successful.”

“So you’ve discovered a way to make them silent?” he asked, now visibly interested.

“I think so! I don’t know if it’ll be one hundred percent effective all the time, you want me to tell you how?”

“I’d be grateful if you did. This class was… distressing.”

“Oh it sure was. Mathilde almost had a breakdown, she really detests loud noises” she frowned “Professor Beery could have given some warning about it…”

“I thought Walsh looked a little bit sick by the end of class, is she alright?”

“She goes to her sister when stuff like this happens, so I reckon she’ll be fine”

He didn’t care about Walsh’s health, but knowing who she relied on in times of need could be useful in the future. For what, he was not sure, so he put this bit of knowledge neatly guarded in the corner of his mind he dedicated to such things.

“That’s good then, give her my regards when you see her. Will you teach her what you discovered?”

“I will, yeah” she said seriously.

“How is it done then?”

Kuznetsov hummed. 

“Well, they sorta look like babies, right?” she gesticulated “So I thought, why not treat them like one? If I were all comfortable inside my earth hole, and someone pulled me by the hair out then I would also shriek like a banshee!” Tom nodded in encouragement “I made sure to warm my gloves. I touched the earth around it to wake it up before I pulled it, and when I did, I did it slowly, and not only by the leaves. You saw I was also holding it by the rear?”

“Yes.”

“To support its weight. It did make some distress noises but it wasn’t the same wail as the others.”

“Oh” Tom said “That actually makes so much sense, how come nobody has thought of it before?”

“I don’t know” she shrugged “You’d-You’d think herbology masters would care about such things” she complained. “Tom? Why did you stop?”

She eyed him curiously, Tom had indeed halted, abruptly so.

“I think I left my gloves on my seat” he lied “I’ll go pick them.”

“Oh, you want me to go with you?”

“No, it’s alright. You seem cold and we are almost by the castle. Thanks for the information” he said trying to not sound too hurried to leave “I’ll see you at History of magic.”

“Okay, bye Riddle!”

“Bye.”

Tom jogged away and once he was sure he was out of Kuznetsov sights, he turned towards the forbidden forest.

She had stuttered, he thought, but it hadn’t sounded as such, it had sounded like she was at the beginning of the sentence. Tom had given a step and he had not advanced. Time had rewind, and they got caught on it; Tom knew Harry was somewhere near.

He ran towards the looming trees, sure the time halt had originated there. He was not aware of how he knew, he just felt the certainty that that's where he'd find Harry. 

Once in the forest, he reduced his speed, and walked fast with care of not stumbling, cataloguing the plants he recognized as potion ingredients for future use.

He heard steps and followed them.

They led him to a clearing, they belonged to thestrals, a herd of them.

 _Death omens_. Tom paled and took a step back, almost crashing with a tree.

“Tom?”

Harry stood in the middle of the herd, his hand scratching behind one of the creature’s ears with absolute calm.

“Harry, what are you doing?”

“Oh, I found the thestrals; they are horse looki-”

“I know what they are.” he snapped “ _Why_ are you touching them?”

Harry goggled at him, now caressing the animal with both hands “I like them.”

“They are _death omens_ ” he stressed the words as if he Harry was stupid. And he probably was, all things considered.

Harry snorted

“People just think that because they are ugly” he smiled and walked closer. The thestral he had been so occupied with followed him “What are you doing in the forest, Tom?”

“I knew you’d be here” he looked at the thing with distaste, as it urged Harry to keep on petting it with its ugly hairless head.

“Oh” he said, looking oddly at Tom, which made him blush uncomfortably “That’s a first, I think. No one has ever appeared to me.”

“Not even Salazar Slytherin?”

“Hm? No that was random as well” And it was the most information Harry had ever given about the Man whose obsession with him had been historical.

“Let’s leave” Tom suggested “I don’t like those things.”

“Well, I love them.” 

How could someone love such an unsightly creature? 

“Why?” he asked both perplexed and disgusted.

“They are great for flying” Harry shrugged, now completely distracted by the greedy thing. The thestral kept on harassing Harry, now resting its head on Harry’s shoulders. Harry seemed delighted.

“You’ve rode them?” Tom felt a bit scandalized, what sort of person would get on those things willingly? He asked himself-

And just why was Harry cuddling it, both arms surrounding its neck in an uncomfortable looking hug.

“A couple of times. I prefer brooms, but thestrals are good for long trips” he kept silent after that, engrossed on his task of pampering the thestrals. Tom felt indignation that Harry’s attention was with that thing when Tom was right there in front of him, as if this was a much more riveting activity. Harry spoke again before Tom could grab him by the robes and tuggle him away “Who have you seen die, Tom?”

It had come softly, a question laced with curiosity but also seriousness, without the fascination Lestrange had shown him.

So Tom answered honestly, finding that he didn’t mind if Harry knew.

“A drunk man got stabbed one morning I snuck away from- from where I live” he shrugged, as if the sight hadn’t rattled him when it happened “Mrs. Kelly, too. I didn’t see her die, but I saw when they took her away. And, there was a whooping cough outbreak, a few kids died from it.”

Tom might have died too, if he hadn’t had his own room back then. The mere thought of it froze his blood; he hated thinking of it. Telling these things to Harry should have felt as if he was baring himself; it didn’t.

“Oh” said Harry “How old are you, Tom?”

“Twelve.” he eyed the thestral with distaste “You think there are other creatures that we can’t see unless something happens?”

Harry’s sad expression melted away, and like from flowers under the first light of spring, a little smile came to be. Soft and unburdened, Tom immediately felt his eyes fixate on it. “My friend Luna thought so, she spoke about them often; just because we can’t see something it doesn’t mean it isn’t there” he sighed wistfully and glanced fondly at the thestrals. The creature nuzzled Harry’s chest.

Harry’s whole demeanor had changed, his voice was warm and his body language was incredibly open, Tom hadn’t noticed how tense Harry had been until then. Tom felt something flare inside him; it was ugly and not at all unfamiliar, but surprising in its sudden intensity.

“Luna?” he growled “You have visits like this with others?”

Harry noticed Tom’s mood changed and looked at him unimpressed “Not really. She was a friend from before I- before I got lost”

Tom glared at him for a moment. Harry raised an eyebrow. They stared at each other in silent battle until Tom decided it was a stupid thing to do.

Tom huffed and took a step closer, Harry took a step back, eyeing him warily, but Tom only reached for the thestral. The creature sniffed his hand before pressing its face on his palm. Tom petted it carefully, unused to the action. He copied how he remembered people petting dogs and scratched it behind the ear “You are very ugly” he told it in a whisper, sliding slowly his hand down its neck.

Harry huffed out a laugh, and resumed his ministrations to the thestrals. Tom willfully ignored the little bemused glances Harry sent him from time to time.

Harry must be _so_ unused to regular human interaction, Tom reasoned. 

*

“Riddle.”

“Flint.”

Darla Flint glared at him and pushed her long hair away from her face “Walk with me”

“Why should I?”

She sighed impatiently “Heard Black is throwing a hissy fit, if she sees you she will attack you and fuck up the united front rule, again, so as prefect it’s on me to keepit hat from happening. ”

Tom gritted his teeth and nodded. He followed her quietly.

*

“I read about them,” explained Tom the next time he saw Harry. He pulled out a bag from his robes and from it extracted some pieces of raw meat “they are carnivores” Harry was practically draped all over one of the biggest thestrals of the herd. Tom knew he’d find him in the forbidden forest the next time he appeared, so the first moment he was free from prying eyes he had run to the kitchens. Tom had been carrying around the raw meat bag for the best part of two days, preserved by magic.

Time had stopped again and he knew Harry had come back, and he knew where he was. Harry liked ugly things, Tom reasoned; the house elves, the thestrals. So he’d make Harry think he liked them too.

“Oh, yes, they’ll love that” he smiled tentatively “Make sure of throwing it at them, you don’t want to lose any fingers.”

Tom assented and did so. The thestrals ran to the meat the moment it landed on the floor, almost dragging Harry with them. They looked like pigeons eating bread crumbs.

Harry walked towards him and crouched on the floor by his side, he looked up “How long had you been carrying that meat?”

“I just went to pick it up” he lied smoothly “I figured I would visit them again. They are spooky but not so bad” he shrugged.

“You... wanted to visit them?”

Tom raised an eyebrow and stared at him over his nose at him.

“Are you daft? I just said so didn’t I?”

Harry snorted “I didn't take you for the type is all.”

“The type?”

“To care about animals.”

“I don’t,” Tom admitted and crouched down as well, using the movement to conceal how he moved closer to Harry. Not touching, yet, but now just a fewer distance apart than before “animals don’t like me. Except snakes, I guess, but…”

“But?”

“They are invisible and have wings”, he gestured towards the thestrals “It’s fascinating”

Harry smiled at him, then “I suppose they are.”

It wasn’t so hard, Tom thought, to make Harry happy.

They remained there in silence until Tom’s legs started to fall asleep and he stood up. He figured Harry was the same, but instead Harry sat down on the dirt.

Tom stared down at him, he looked just like any other Hogwarts student at first glance, without taking into account the scars. But he still seemed to call Tom’s attention to himself without doing much else than existing in his periphery. 

"Who have you seen die, Harry?” he asked and Harry froze, his expression darkened.

“Why do you want to know?”

Tom shrugged, not showing how unnerved he felt at Harry’s change of demeanor “You know who I’ve seen. It seems fair”

Harry kept quiet for a while.

“A friend.”

“From before?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?” Tom saw fit to ask.

Harry’s eyes went distant.

“I’m not so sure, now. I could have turned eighteen a few days ago, I could be turning twenty five tomorrow. I don’t know how long I’ve been stuck.”

Stuck.

Not lost.

Tom took this word and guarded it in the part of his brain completely dedicated to Harry.

People saw Harry as lost. Harry saw himself as stuck. That meant something.

*

Eloise Smith, a third year Hufflepuff, had spread word that Tom Riddle was terribly helpful. Tom wanted to throttle her when he found out from the mouth of first years who asked him to take them to the potions classroom.

He gave them directions and waved them away. 

The Slytherin first years took a while to warm up to him but they were getting there. It was not too hard, when in comparison the other children in his year were mean to them, since they believed themselves superior only because they were older. Tom knew better than anybody that age did not matter when it came to cleverness and worthiness if it was not backed up at least by experience. 

His classmates thought differently of course, they felt so special for being second years. 

Morons.

Winning over the Gryffindor house was proving to be more difficult than he expected, the further he went from his age range the harder it became. Second and third years regarded him amicably, the other years not so much.

But Tom could do it, he could do anything.

  
  


*

He had seen him at the distance and changed pacing abruptly to reach him.

Harry was toeing the border to the black lake, carefully not wetting his shoes. Tom observed him a long time as he played until Harry felt his eyes on his back, tensed, and turned around abruptly, hand moving to the side as if to retrieve a wand, but remaining empty.

“How long have you been there?” he snapped.

Tom raised an eyebrow “I just got here.”

Harry glared at him but relaxed minutely “Do you need something?”

Tom shrugged and kicked a stone “Maybe I do.”

“Really?”

Tom had an idea, then “Yes, actually” he walked closer, almost touching the water “Gryffindors don’t like me, and you are a Gryffindor.”

“I am.”

“And you like me.”

“Do I?”

“Don’t you?”

Harry stared at him, his eyes gleamed with something strange, and his lips twisted as he frowned. Tom felt an unpleasant pressure in his chest at the silence, but Harry spoke finally “Yeah” he said hoarsely “I think I do.”

The pressure inside him eased and he felt flooded with some unknown emotion. The air was crisp, and it smelled of the shallows of the black lake, Harry was eying him strangely as if Tom had done something entirely alien.

His cheeks were pulling; Tom had been smiling, beaming, actually. 

He expertly closed up his face, erasing all emotions.

“That’s to be expected” he sniffed “I am very charming”

Harry goggled at him, gaped, snorted, and started laughing; not mockingly, it was almost hysterically, and Tom felt smug at this. 

“They hate me because I am in Slytherin,” Tom explained later, two centimeter closer to Harry than the last time they had crouched like this. Harry’s fingers were playing with the water surface as he listened to him. “They call me slimy Slytherin. That’s stupid, snakes aren’t slimy.”

“They should call you poisonous.”

“Venomous, actually.” Tom corrected “I’d very much rather that, than slimy. Anyways, it’s annoying me and I know the next time a fourth or fifth year jinxes me while walking to the great hall I will snap and do something” he scrunched up his nose, Harry’s eyes roamed his face freely. “It would be preferable if they just left me alone.”

“You’d snap and do something like what?”

Ah, Harry did not like those things didn't he? He was not like Lestrange, what Harry liked was when Tom said something like…

“Bite them, maybe.” 

Harry huffed out a laugh “Yeah...” he said, and Tom wanted to think that tone of voice was fond. “Well, unless you do something incredibly daring and chivalrous then I don’t think they might start liking you just because.”

“So all I have to do then is save Dumbledore’s wrinkly arse as he stumbles on his ridiculous robes?” Harry froze. Tom did too. He had said something wrong hadn't he? What had it been? _what_. “Harry?”

“Yes, something like that” Harry mumbled and vanished. Tom was startled at the abruptness of it, he stared at the empty space by his side.

“Harry?” Tom called “Harry!”

Had Dumbledore and Harry met when Tom was unaware? Had Harry appeared to him? Did Harry get offended on Dumbledore’s stead?

_“Harry!”_

_*_

Helga left her quarters and stepped into the warm light of Hufflepuff house’s common room. A few children laid around in front of the fire, sound asleep, others read with their feet tucked inside blankets under the light of a lumos.

One of them jumped when they saw her and tried to hide, ineffectively of course. She smiled at him and the child relaxed.

Helga made her way towards the kitchen to check on the house elves. They received her joyfully and offered sweets and hot milk.

“What about some wine, hm?” she suggested “I even brought my own cup, would you serve me, dear?”

“Yes! Right away!” said Liny, one of the oldest house elves that had come to work as aid in the castle.

Helga sat at a table and waited for the wine to be brought and poured. It was somewhat of a tradition and it brought her immense comfort; her father used to give her a few sips of wine when she couldn’t sleep and it would put her out like a light.

It didn’t work as well, now. She’d had to drink much more than a few sips. Nonetheless, on nights of inquietude, drinking from her cup always worked to put her at ease.

She heard footsteps and turned around. Had Godric thought to come for a late night snack? He was rather dumb in certain aspects, he much rather sleep in that tower even though he usually got peckish around midnight and had to walk all the way down to the basement.

It was not Godric entering the place, but rather a malnourished wild-eyed child. She had only seen said child before once, at the end of a long hallway, very much like a mirage.

Salazar 's boy.

But he did not look as the last time she had seen him, he did not look at all as Salazar had feverishly described him a few nights ago after the four of them had drunk themselves to a stupor.

He was dirty, skinnier, and wearing strange clothes that hung from his frame. There were leaves on that messy hair of his.

And his eyes shone wet.

“Oh dear” she whispered “Are you alright?”

The boy jumped and stared at her as if she had walked out of thin air and not the other way around. He spoke quickly, voice hoarse as if he had been screaming, in a language she had never heard before in any of her travels.

“I’m sorry, child. I do not understand you” she apologized, and her tones must have conveyed what her words couldn't, because the boy’s shoulder sagged in resignation. His face fell and Helga’s heart squeezed painfully. She stood up and opened a chair for the boy to sit. It took him a few seconds to understand the gesture, but he eventually complied, slowly, frightened at something.

She sat in front of him and called for Liny to bring the boy some milk and bread.

The boy eyed the food dubiously, but Helga smiled encouragingly at him. After hesitating he took a bite and began eating, ravenously so.

He looked up at her, his mouth full and looking very much like a squirrel. Helga thought it adorable and laughed softly as to not scare him further.

She grabbed her cup and toasted to the air, winking at him. The boy’s eyes fixated on it, widening impossibly. He opened his mouth and some crumbs fell from it.

He vanished.

Oh, Helga thought, bemused.

Salazar had explained the feeling once, of the boy vanishing, she had found it funny when he told them it was almost as if all the candles of a room wilted down at once.

If Helga had to describe it with her words, she’d say it was almost as if suddenly, someone vanished the roof. 

*

Abraxas Malfoy sneered at the first years and they scampered away from the couches. Stumbling over themselves. Such was the power that the Malfoy family held. His eyes met Tom minutely, it was the most acknowledgment the other boy had ever given him. 

The common room was packed, and Tom's corner had been usurped by Reed Selwyn and Walburga Black. Tom hated her; she was a pureblood but uncouth in his hate and completely unsubtle of her feelings about Tom. As long as he kept out of her sight, she would not throw vitriol at him. 

He heard someone call him. Martha Yaxley sat on a carpet, surrounded by pillows Tom guessed had been transfigured out of something else. She smiled at him and gestured to the space in front of her. 

He didn't like sitting on the floor, but he indulged her anyway

“Where's your shadow?”

“Who, Darla? Detention with Quayle”

“What did she do?” 

“She called him dull and he heard her, he was standing right behind her" she laughed.

“I would say being dull is his most stellar quality”

Yaxley chuckled “I would say, yeah.”

  
  


“Didn't you know?" said a voice at his back "the lost boy has stumbled onto Hogwarts" 

“I've heard that's his shtick, yes”

“No, uncle said that he heard that the seventh bed has been appearing more times this past year than it has in all recorder history! Do you think that we could find him?”

“Can you imagine? Let’s go search for him!”

  
  


“Riddle? Are you alright?”asked Yaxley. 

“Of course.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> second year will be shorter than first year, oof.
> 
> Im going back to uni, so the update schedule we had of... 3 to 5 days between updates is no more. (i'm surprised, i could have sworn it had been longer)


	6. Second Year.2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, to myself: so no chapters over 5k, you can't handle editing them.  
> me, later the same day: So, I wrote 8k!

As he sat grading papers in his office, illuminated by the yellow candle light, a sudden pulsing pain made home in his head. Albus pinched his nose and groaned lowly, he rubbed his eyes, tired of deciphering the writing of the younger years; too small, or too big, mostly too ugly. The children had outdone themselves with their papers and they had kept him up after midnight.

But that was an excuse; the pain had nothing to do with his students, but with the sleepless nights that had come after the news that the muggle war had begun.

Albus examined his ink covered fingers idly, yes; he had been too long indeed, sitting here. His neck creaked as he moved it from side to side, slowly, to not hurt himself.

He had known, since the beginning, the name of the man leading all the attacks and recruitment efforts within the youth in the continent, a name that had remained in obscurity until the man that it belonged to has stepped out into daylight and destroyed a muggle street in front of twenty witnesses. Albus had half hoped that he'd never have to think of that name again, even if it meant Gellert had died in anonymity, chasing the delusions they had once shared.

A part of him, though, was relieved that he was alive and well. Another part of him was disgusted at this, since Gellert Grindelwald being alive and well only meant death for those who opposed him. Those too weak to resist.

Not for the first time Albus wondered to himself, without allowing his mind to fully form the thought, about what would have happened if he was there, right at Gellert’s back, if he’d be somehow able to rein him in, and eventually lessen the damages. Gellert would have surely listened to him; he always paid rapt attention when Albus spoke.

Ariana’s face flashed to the forefront of his mind, the way she looked the time he saw her last. Abeforth's screams in the air, Gellert panting. Albus had looked into his eyes and saw only a question aimed at him. Clear as a summer sky.

_And? What will you do now?_

Albus had known then what was the answer that he’d regret the less when time passed. When he was old and grey. He knew as he stood hovering over his sister’s body that he’d look back into this moment every day, every time he was alone, when his thoughts proved themselves louder than the outside noise. 

He had also been aware that if he had gone with Gellert he would not have felt just as sad as he did now, as he always did. That his grief would have evolved into something else, something focused, vicious. That he’d find scapegoats, those who had made Ariana the way she was, how he remembered her.

He had known then, and he had not been wrong. Albus was seldom wrong.

He let go of his quill and leaned back, closing his eyes. His office prided itself with the same warm colors that decorated the Gryffindor’s color room. They were familiar, comforting. Part of this life he chose for himself, the less shameful one.

Albus waved all those thoughts away and stood up. With a wave of his wand the parchment was neatly guarded in his drawer, in seconds his desk was neat, if a bit cluttered.

He needed to sleep. Tomorrow awaited, and the first years were terribly rowdy. Especially now that the news of the seventh bed appearing had leaked out. Many parents had probably spoken the legend behind it, flourishing it as they usually did, and now all these boys and girls had begun running through hallways, stopping in front of the older looking students, examining their faces and then huffing in disappointment.

It was so amusing.

He’d heard the myth of course, the tales spun and waved around it. His father once told him that if you were to meet the lost boy you could ask him for a wish and he’d concede it.

There were many that followed the belief that the lost boy was lost after all, and you need to seek for him to find him. He wouldn't appear by himself out of nowhere, he wouldn't show himself so easily. Many others believed that the boy had to choose you. Some had bet that they were chance encounters; luck, and nothing more.

Silly tales, all of them. Delightful in their creativity. Albus had indulged himself once or twice and searched faces and empty spots, half waiting for someone to appear.

Ariana had loved the story. She had often made up tales around it, before she—

Albus cringed and gritted his teeth. He wouldn't go there, not tonight.

*

Tom Riddle opened a door for a fellow classmate. She smiled at him in thanks before she sat in the front. He did as well, a few seats away, to her left. 

That boy, Albus mused, was trying too hard. The rest of his students entered lacking the poise Tom always showed, tripping over themselves, laughing loudly.

Tom felt his eyes on him and glanced warily at Albus. He needn’t to be so leery, Albus wouldn’t punish him for trying to fit in, no matter how uneasy said child made him at times.

Albus knew Tom Riddle lacked the morals one learnt in a loving home, he had known when Tom had used his magic freely and tried to control him the first time they spoke, it was palpable the disregard he showed over the other children. The boy was the sort that became dangerous as they grew, he was so observant, and so brilliant. The quintessential Slytherin by all means.

Hopefully being forcefully socialized as he was now at Hogwarts would stick with him into adulthood. The boy should learn here how to control his impulses. 

Although it was so easy—

—it was so easy to lean in, to get lost in the allure of power, of acknowledgement. At least Albus had thought then— at least his ambitions weren’t purely about himself. Gellert and him had planned for the magical society at large, and it had been so _easy_ to just believe—

If Ariana hadn’t—

—Oh but in _what house_ would Arianna have been sorted if those boys hadn’t—

Gellert had looked at Albus then with that question in his eyes, and Albus had chosen—

“Good afternoon, please sit quietly as I deliver your papers. I must admit, I was delightfully surprised when I saw the thorough investigation behind your essays. Five points to both Gryffindor and Slytherin!”

*

The headmaster office was cold, as it usually was; Armando had a skewed sense of temperature.

“There had been some owls bearing requests for transfer students. Not many, yet. The majority of the families fleeing the war before it escalates rather go far away, to Australia or America.” The headmaster informed him calmly, dipping a biscuit in his tea.

“Will they come for the new term or shall we prepare to receive students sooner than that?” asked Albus, legs crossed and hand on his knee, sitting in front of Headmaster Dippet. It was his duty as deputy headmaster to see to such matters. But at this point he also oversaw matters that should not concern him; Armando did love to delegate.

“New term, thankfully. We will have to sort older children, no more than fifteen year olds for now.” He assured before taking a tiny bite of the crumbling biscuit. There were surely some crumbs now at the bottom of his cup.

Albus eyed his own cup, still full and hot, and the plates of biscuits and realized that this meeting was about more than transfer students. The headmaster had matters he wanted to complain about and probably nobody to hear them. Albus held back a sigh and drank a sip, he made eye contact with a portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black, who sneered at him.

*

The castle seemed haunting in its beauty when it was empty at night. So he paced the halls calmly, despite it meaning he’d have to tuck in late again. A little girl followed him, jumping from frame to frame, and hiding every time he looked at her. She was blond, and wore a blue sky dress. Albus tried not to think, at all, practicing occlumency as he walked.

The headache had made a dramatic comeback.

He arrived at Gryffindor tower faster than he had hoped.

The Fat Lady, when she saw him whispered “I heard from Miriam that there was a boy still awake inside.”

 _“Miriam should stop spying on students and stay within the confines of her own frame”_ Albus didn’t say, he just thanked her and silently stepped in the common room.

There was indeed a student awake in the common room, one of the older ones, sitting hunched over the fireplace, almost as if he was about to make a floo call. From that position he was similar to a shadow in Albus' eyes, in contrast to the fire light that shone angrily tonight. Albus couldn't place him; he probably was more tired than he thought, for he knew the names of every student in this castle, especially the ones belonging to his house.

Albus cleared his throat, the boy jumped.

“I believe it is too late for contemplations at the fire’s warmth.” He said calmly and with no reproach.

The boy did not respond, he did not move either; he had seemed to stop breathing as he remained statue-still. Albus frowned “You will not be in trouble if you go to your room.” he assured “Unless there’s something troubling you, then you may speak to me” he added, willing down the thunder that his headache had become. He wished the boy would just leave to his room, but it was his duty as an educator to care for the children he was in charge of.

“My boy?” he asked, still unable to place to which of his students that back belonged to. Then, the boy’s shoulders shook in faint trembles, subtle even to his trained eye. Albus reached him in a few strides and crouched by his side “Are you alright?” he asked, concerned.

Then he saw the boy’s face.

The lost boy stared at him with an indescribable expression, as if Albus himself was the apparition. There was some fury in his eyes, there was also yearning, which source Albus wouldn't even dare try to identify. So many things crossed those eyes in a stretched out second.

The exact shade as the killing curse; that part of the tale was true.

At this distance from the fireplace, the heat of it was almost painful. Albus would not be able to remain this close for much longer.

“Professor,” the boy said quietly, as he exhaled. “Am I… am I dead? Or am I dreaming?” he asked, when he blinked a tear fell down, like a little drop of rain. Just one.

“I don’t know, my boy.”

Then the boy’s expression darkened.

“I am not your boy, I am- I am not!” he hissed, startling Albus, whose eyes widened. The boy’s face crumbled as if ashamed “I-I’m sorry”

“It’s alright.” he reassured, trying not to show how out of his depth he felt. The boy stared at him, searching. Albus felt no legimency prod as one would have expected would come along such intense gaze.

The child breathed in shakily. 

“It’s not fair, it’s not fair. Professor, I should be dead, why can’t I—”

The boy was gone.

Vanished into the air, in a blink, just as the tales said.

Albus did not dare breathe for a long time. When he did, he sagged and sat on the carpet.

* 

After dinner, Salazar guided his students to their common room; it felt very much like herding sheep. 

Then, he went to Gryffindor’s tower for a late night drink with Godric, who had been insisting rather persistently the past week. They had not spent time like they had done before —drinking and talking and fixing the world’s problems over mead or wine— in what seemed like ages, so he indulged him. 

While walking through the halls, he felt a chill permeating the air, which should have been impossible, since there were enchantments preventing such things from happening; one of the runes they used to keep an even temperature inside the castle might have been tampered with. He’d have to investigate it later.

Godric’s room was a painful red and gold, many types of red. Crimson curtains, burgundy drapes, scarlet mantels. He had not much eye for style, very little taste, but that had not the reason Salazar had befriended him.

They sat and talked, discussed their students, funny anecdotes that occurred while teaching. Of their own children, what they had heard of them in their most recent letters. They spoke of Rowena’s problems with her daughter; on how they increased the past years as Helena grew more and more rebellious, more and more resentful. 

It was a shameful affair, young Helena should not harbor jealousy towards her mother. 

Then again, Rowena never dared lower her speech to anybody’s level, not even children. If you didn't have an ample vocabulary, then it would be unlikely you could hold a conversation with her. And Helena had been just a child when such problems began.

“She is too strict,” Godric sighed. “Rowena shouldn’t pay so much heed to what Helena could become, and more to what she is already. Helena wouldn’t feel so pressured otherwise.”

The fire crackled.

“You sound too much like Helga; Rowena is doing what she thinks best.” Salazar took a sip from his cup, savoring it slowly, feeling himself relax even further. Godric huffed.

“Helga agrees with me, and you, my friend, would have been aware of it, but you have been chasing ghosts when you could have spent time with us. Your unavailability might even be harming your students.'' 

Salazar twitched.

“I give my students all the time they require.” he snapped “And I am not chasing ghosts.”

“A boy who vanishes?” questioned Godric, before taking a long gulp from his jug, swallowing loudly. It was infuriating.

“You said you believed me.”

Godric sighed heavily. 

“I do, Salazar, but you have always been obsessive, always had a one track mind.”

“I see the pot had not learned his lesson since the last time he called the kettle black” he raised an eyebrow and sneered.

Godric chuckled “Well my one track mind gained us this castle at the end, didn't it?”

Salazar could only agree to that, so he drank another sip. He stared at his own reflection on the dark liquid before speaking again. 

“I’ve been thinking. Perhaps the boy has something to do with the people that inhabited the castle before?”

His friend shook his head.

“Mere muggles, they were '' said Godric “I seriously doubt it, unless they had had a magic child and said child learned arcane magic that backfired badly. But that's rather outlandish theory.”

“I doubt that's the case.”

“If he were a son of muggles then your obsession for him would wither down and die.” He smirked.

Salazar lowered his drink and placed it on a near table, careful of putting it away from the edge. He glared.

“It is not an obsession. And what you proposed is impossible; mudbloods could never achieve such a feat.” He argued, incensed “Their magic has no blood tether and is bound to die down soon, producing squib lines.”

“Rowena has a theory that disproves that.”

“Rowena has always a theory that disproves whatever theory one of us comes up with. She has theories disproving her own theories.”

Godric rolled his eyes at him, as he always did, when their conversations drifted to this topic.

“My friend, as long as they leave their muggle families behind and settle into our community they’ll present no danger for us, squib lines or not; your fears are unfounded. Hufflepuff house is too full with children you’ve given your back to.”

“Abandoning one’s family is not as easy as you make it be, some of us don't make a habit out of it.”

Silence rang. The fire crackled again, like bones snapping.

“You are stepping out of line, Salazar.”

“I apologize.”

After that, the conversation died down quickly, and Salazar excused himself.

He knew himself unable to sleep in this state so he wandered the castle, inspecting the runes in charge of the temperature and found that some had, in fact, been tampered with. You could not trust children to let them be, they’d have to find a different place to hide them so their students won’t reach them.

He stared outside through a window. The moon shone bright and the star's pathway was as beautiful as ever. He loved the privacy that the lake brought, how hidden away it was, but staring at the night sky was something he had not realized would miss when he chose his quarters.

A student was walking on the grounds and Salazar recognized him instantly. He turned and strided towards the castle’s gates and ran after him.

Chasing after ghosts, indeed.

  
  


*

The common room was almost empty; it had been for a while. Tom had not noticed, immersed in his notes as he was. But then he heard tentative steps approaching his position, and he took account of Allan’s snores and Virgil’s quill brushing paper.

Orion Black was a twitchy little child, the complete opposite of his cousin, Walburga. The first year hovered nervously at their periphery until one of them had deigned to look at him.

“Black, may we be of assistance?” spoke Bulstrode, taking pity on the boy. Orion startled and nodded quickly.

“Speak then,” snapped Lestrange “we are busy.” They were not, actually. Tom had sat to revise in his usual corner, near the windows that showed the black lake, and the others had flocked towards him. Virgil was doodling and Allan was sleeping. Bulstrode was playing explosive snap with Avery, and Lestrange had been making faces at a curious grindylow that had swum near. It’s ugly face pressing on the glass.

“I need assistance from Riddle,” Black addressed Lestrange. “May he?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Said Lestrange, glaring at him. Black cowered slightly and, finally, looked at Tom.

“May you?”

“May I what?”

“Help me?”

“It depends, Black, what do you need help with?”

“Astronomy.” he mumbled. Lestrange barked a laugh.

“Oh that's hilarious, _Orion Black._ ”

“Nomenclature doesn't have much to do with the workings of the universe” said Tom in a flat tone.

Black nodded “Exactly, will you help me?” 

“I have Friday afternoon free.”

“I can’t on Friday, I’m meeting with friends” protested Black. Tom threw him a dark look but it was Lestrange who answered.

“Move along, then. Tom won’t accommodate his schedule for you.”

“But—” he began. Virgil looked up from his drawings and snapped.

“You are the one asking for help, take it or leave it.”

“Would your parents rather you improve your grades, or that you have _fun_ in the castle?” spat Avery, surprising Tom, who couldn’t help himself for raising his eyebrows.

So there was some spine in there after all.

“Why should I bend to the whims of a _mudblood?”_ Black sneered. Tom tensed, and then forced himself to relax.

Lestrange raised his wand at him, slowly, menancely “Get away Black, you are a nuisance.”

The boy flushed, and glanced to each of their faces, as if he couldn’t believe what was going on. He huffed and left stomping his feet.

Tom smiled, pleased.

“I didn’t need you defending my honor, I'm no maiden.”

Lestrange scoffed. 

“All Blacks think themselves royalty. My blood is as pure as theirs, and you _can't_ be a mudblood.” grumbled Lestrange “I wish he had kept on arguing. I wanted to hex him, make his tongue swell until he couldn't breathe.”

Bulstrode winced, Virgil laughed.

“It would have been something to behold.” agreed Tom. 

That afternoon was not the first in which all his housemates had sat around him, even if he didn't engage them while he studied. 

Such instances kept on repeating as the days progressed. Despite their conflicting personalities, his dorm mates would rather spend time with Tom even if it meant being around each other. 

Because of this, it became difficult to keep himself in their good graces; to openly appreciate Lestrange’s humor while commiserating with Bulstrode about its crudeness. To fit himself between the Rosier cousins, to put Avery at ease.

Every day it took less effort than the last, though. It was easy to not make mistakes; they were open books for his observant eyes. The false steps were obvious, taboo subjects in conversation easily circumvented. Tom was spectacular at this.

His thoughts drifted easily, and he wondered once again why couldn't it be as easy with Harry? Tom knew Harry liked him, he had admitted it himself, and so whatever faux pass he had made in their last conversation could be easily forgiven, right?

Harry had no one else anyways; he could only stay away for so long.

Where was he?

Tom had visited the Thestrals so many times they already knew him and greeted him by approaching him. He’d pat them absentmindedly, waiting for Harry to appear. He’d wander the edges of the black lake, annoyed when the steps he’d heard at his back turned out to be one of his classmates that went to say hi.

Allan liked throwing stones at the water, hoping to hit a mermaid, he had explained. 

“One day you’ll get too close and they’ll grab your feet and drag you down, and _drown you at the bottom._ ” had said Virgil to him, in a deep voice he’d surely thought scary, while they were getting ready to bed.

“We will ask each other ‘Oh but where could dear Allan be?’'” said Lestrange, high pitched and breathy “and _then_ we’ll look through the windows and we’ll see your dead body floating outside!” he laughed. Bulstrode made a disgusted sound. Allan scoffed. 

“I’d defeat them. Besides I’m always there with Tom, he’ll have my back. Right, Tom?”

“I’ll push you right into their slimy, webbed claws.” Tom deadpanned.

Bulstrode and Lestrange cackled, as did the other two boys. Allan rolled his eyes.

For his part, Tom stared out the window, picturing a body floating outside; he had yet to see a mermaid.

Walking down the halls, there were many first years running amok, staring at the older students' faces. There were some children from other years as well, crying wolf intermittently, screaming _I found him!_ While standing in front of an empty space, pointing at it.

It made his blood boil. The first few times he had jumped and gotten whiplash from how fast he had turned his head, only to be met with kids making a fool of themselves.

They hadn't met Harry, they would never meet Harry. They could search forever. It was extremely rare to meet the Lost Boy.

He was convinced —despite the glaring evidence that such a thing could, in fact, happen— that Harry wouldn't show himself to them, because he wanted Tom. Tom was his something familiar, he had chosen him, he had laughed with him, walked with him and shown him many of Hogwarts secrets.

The other children couldn't even begin to compare themselves to Tom, they were _nothing_.

They were running even in the great Hall as other students studied. Tom and his group sat at the Slytherin table. A child screamed and pointed to a Gryffindor sixth year, who smacked him in the head while rolling his eyes. The kid rubbed the spot and kept on running along with other kids.

“That looks fun!” said Virgil, an eager smile taking place in his face “Shall we look for the lost boy?”

Tom’s quill snapped in two, the pieces were digging into his palm, breaking skin. He could not feel it.

“Oh, Tom, need a new one?” asked Bulstrode, eyeing him worriedly.

“I’ve got a spare.” mumbled Tom. He relaxed his hand and let the broken pieces fall onto the table.

“Sure! Let’s do it!” agreed Lestrange, and then looked at him, smiling “What do you say To—” 

_“No.”_ he bit out, clenching his teeth, nostrils flaring.

“Why not?” Asked Avery.

“No!” repeated Tom venomously, it rang in the air between them, commanding and with an echo. Tom’s hands were shaking. Avery flinched when their eyes met and hunched over his parchment, his face pale. 

None of them approached the subject again.

Tom seethed silently at every reminder. He’d grit his teeth until he felt them crack, his jaw pop, every time someone raised a hand in question about the rumors of the Lost Boy Tom willed his magic to remain still, within him, even if it felt scalding in his core, fighting its way out. He breathed in and out and thought _restraint._

Of course, most of the questions had come from mudbloods who had not grown listening to stories of the castle. 

Today Slughorn had them working separately.

Tom poured ingredients mechanically into his cauldron, grinding his teeth to dust. Ironically they were brewing the same potion that kept everybody out of his business last summer, by this point he could prepare it with his eyes closed.

Thankfully the subject never came out in potions, or else he was sure Slughorn would have spilt what he knew, about Tom meeting Harry a year ago, always happy to brag of Tom’s accomplishments as if they were his own. Tom felt mildly irritated at worst when Slughonr spoke of his brilliant second year student, but if ever dared breach the subject Tom woul—

Tom breathed in, stabilizing himself, lest he make Slughorn's head explode all over his desk accidentally just by wishing it to fruition.

Harry, to them, was a myth. Play, something that would eventually lose its appeal, like jewelry lost its shine after used. Like people’s eyes lost their gleam as they grew old. The intrigue surrounding Harry would vanish once none of them found him. They have never seen him; they have never spoken to him.

They had not touched him; they did not know what he smelt like, what he sounded like, the metallic taste and warmth of his blood. The breathy sound of pain that came out of his mouth—

They did not know that Harry loved ugly pathetic things and that he was dumb.

For them, Harry was a legend. For Tom, Harry was real. Harry was hi—

“Oh excellent, Tom! I’ve never seen a student move so fluidly while brewing a potion, a perfect one, furthermore!”

Tom nodded and smiled tightly at Slughorn.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Restraint.

Hogwarts’ library was one of those things you stopped to stare before moving in towards the labyrinth made of shelves. Yaxley spoke quietly at his back, chatting to fill the silence. she had insisted on coming with, under the excuse of meeting with a cousin in seventh year to help her study. Tom knew it was not true; Yaxley had no cousins older than her in Hogwarts. 

Tom knew the real reason, it was written all over her; her nails, usually flawless, were bitten and there were bags under her eyes concealed by a glamour. 

She had spent Christmas in the castle again.

During the holidays, she had received a howler every day, which she had stoically cast a silencio on before opening, staring at it dead eyed as it folded into the shape of a mouth and floated, yapping and spitting ink on her face. 

Her muscles had twitched then, as she silently burned the parchment in a swift, well practiced wand movement. 

Tom did not comment on it, and let her use him as an excuse to walk around. She’d get bored soon enough of the library’s silence.

Tom walked straight to where he knew The biographies of notorious wizards were held, and pulled out the book written about the founders. 

Unfortunately the one that spoke solely of Slytherin was being constantly checked out. It was a common practice among the members of his house, Tom had never had the chance to read it.

He sometimes thought that maybe they just never returned it and passed it around, from hand to hand, like his classmates did notes during class.

Tom sat on the nearest table and skimmed through the pages, to Slytherin’s chapters and The Lost Boy’s title.

Much of it he had read before, where it was hypothesized that Slytherin had been born, how he met the other founders, the creation of Hogwarts, the apparitions of the boy, the growing obsession, the fall out with the other founders, the rumoured chamber, and finally the loss of the Slytherin line. 

As his eyes roamed freely, searching for clue words about Harry, two of them caught his attention.

_Serpent language._

Tom paused, frowning in thought. He searched for the paragraph where he had read them.

_It is well known that Salazar Slytherin was amongst the rare few capable of speaking the serpent language, commonly known as parseltongue; as it says, the ability to communicate with snakes._

_Uncommon,_ Dumbledore had said when they met first, _but not unheard off._

Tom cursed at his professor, he held the book tightly, the pages wrinkled. 

_In the british Islands only the direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin possess such ability, which has been lost to time and low birth rates. The House of Gaunt, faded now to obscurity and madness, claimed to be the last ones of Slytherins heirs._

_Isolt Sayre, co-founder of..._

He stopped reading, stared ahead unseeing. 

Dumbledore had known. This was common knowledge, this was something that _e_ _verybody knew._

Tom had read many times books and passages that referred to salazar slytherin as a Serpent Tongue, a Serpent mouth. He had thought it a title, a reference to his personality, not to his _ability to speak to snakes._

An ability that Tom shared. That only Slytherin’s _descendants_ had, his _heirs_ …

Shock rippled into him in pleasant waves. 

Tom had known! He had known he was different than everybody else! that he was _special, better._

_And._

And Dumbledore had not deemed necessary to mention it. To Tom, who had been an orphan all his life. He could have given him a past, roots, and he decided not to.

He had _deprived him_ of what was his, of his birthright…!

Tom released the book abruptly and hid his face in his palms. To others it might have looked like he was crying, his shoulders shook and gasping breathy sounds escaped muffled between his fingers. But Tom was not crying, he was _laughing._

It did not matter what Dumbledore had or had not done; it was inconsequential, Tom had found out anyways.

Because he had a trone to claim. He was not nothing, he was not a mudblood orphan, raised amongst beasts. He was Slytherin’s heir.

Tom closed the book and hastily put it back, refraining from running as he made his way out of the library. He saw Yaxley sitting sullenly by a window, but paid no attention. Tom wanted to scream, to run, to jump. The euphoria was such that the books rattled and shook as he passed them by.

Outside, the metal of the armours creaked and the air crackled. Tom ran past, like he was just another child, hid himself in the stairs behind a tapestry, casted a silencio and _laughed._ A pure, joyful laugh. His heart beat fast, his face hurt from smiling, he was vibrating in his skin.

He had to tell Harry…!

It was dark in the staircase, the tapestry robbing it from any light, making it a dark damp space. Tom’s hands hung limp at his side as his smile fell away.

Harry was Slytherin’s lost boy.

And Tom was Slytherin’s lost heir,

And the only reason why Harry was somehow _binded_ to him, the reason he must have found Tom so familiar, that motivated him to appear to him over and over again, it's because he must have seen Something in Tom that reminded him of Slytherin.

Something in his eyes, perhaps the shape of his nose, the way he spat out words in anger. 

Tom was bitterly aware then that he should have felt happy at this, as it was further proof of his relation to Slytherin. Another chain securing him to what he had always desired for; a history, a past, origins, roots, legacy.

Then, why did he feel so hollow?

*

“Tom? Where have you been all day?” asked Avery in the middle of closing his curtains. Allan peeked his head from his bed and nodded along.

Tom paced to his bed and sat on it “Revising.” he answered, before closing the drapes and casting the necessary spells to keep them shut for the night. He stared up, hands on his stomach. 

Breathe in, breathe out.

Restraint. 

  
  


*

Salazar had discovered the caves as he wandered the grounds surrounding the lake, the last place he had seen the boy wander through. 

They were enormous tunnels that, if he was right, went down the lake and under the castle. It has been a long time since Salazar had felt excited with the thrill of discovery. It was dark and a mere lumos wouldn't be enough, and there were surely beasts. He mused telling Godric about them, but the remainder of their last conversation was enough to demotivate it.

Oh but the possibilities of this new hiding place. 

Had the boy known about them? had he guided him as Salzar chased him, was this a gift of some sort?

Nonsense, surely. 

Nonetheless. Salazar had found a new project.

*

Tom kept his ancestry to himself. It would do him no good to give away this new found knowledge. It was easier that it would have been in any other situation, one where the exhilaration he felt had not been soured so thoroughly. 

Within the whirmwill of joy and quiet rage,Tom also felt relief, because unless there were other lost Slytherin heirs milling around there was no danger of Harry appearing to them at will.

Since he also did it on accident, but that could not be helped, Harry was a bit stupid.

Had it really been something that Tom had said? how come he had not been forgiven yet?

February was nearing its end and Tom had not seen Harry since the beginning of December.

At witching hour Tom felt with certainty that he was being watched. It broke through his dreams like a bout of lightning, the feeling someone's gaze drilling at his nape. 

Tom jerked awake and was met with the obscurity that the curtains brought, he had his yew wand in his hand.

 _“Homenum revelio”_ he whispered; there were six people in the room including himself. Tom stepped out of bed cautiously and put on his shoes. He went to the common room; it was empty. The only light sources were the eternally lit fireplace and the distorted moonlight, the shadows stretched towards the walls like black tapestries.

There was no one there either. 

But he knew, he _knew._

He ran towards the entrance, down a long black stoned hallway, he stepped out to the dungeons, wand ready.

Cold air made him shiver and he stumbled into someone, his arm snapped forward like a whip, a jinx on his lips, the tip of his wand starting to illuminate as he pointed it...

He pointed it right at Harry’s face.

Tom faltered.

“You are in your pajamas.” commented Harry, voice oddly rough, hands limp by his side, he hadn't even twitched with a wand aiming at his nose.

“Where have you been?” Tom asked, incensed, thrumming with a sudden spark of energy, the beginnings of anger bubbling in his gut.

“How did you know I was here?”

Tom huffed. As always, Harry didn't bother answering his question

“I felt you” he answered “I felt you looking.”

“I wasn't”

“I know –but I felt it.”

Harry’s silence made the cold of the dungeons more tangible somehow, it wrapped him like a blanket made of chill, Tom shivered but refused to show how physically uncomfortable he felt, how stiff his fingers were.

The torch light flickered as if it was about to die down, Harry’s profile was barely illuminated by it, as if it had been traced to life by hesitant brush strokes.

“I... had a dream,” Harry whispered, “it was a horrible one. She touched my shoulder and her hand went right through me, it… It was so real, I thought I was dead.” 

“No!” denied Tom, loudly, it echoed “No, you can’t!” what Harry couldn’t do, or couldn’t be, he didn’t specify.

“How would I know? This could be purgatory.” Argued Harry but his voice sounded weak, brittle.

“You could test it,” said Tom, the moment the words left his mouth his heart leaped painfully, it might as well be visible through his shirt, but he continued steady, “I’m here. I’m real.”

Harry’s gaze bore into him, but Tom held it easily, forging the color of Harry’s irises into his memory. He was yet to find a matching shade of green. 

A second, two. 

…Harry’s hand rose slowly until it was hovering near Tom’s face, in a tentative motion it approached near. Tom could feel its warmth on his cheek, tantalizing and so real, so he leaned into it, meeting it halfway. Harry’s hand twitched away, but Tom chased after it, finally placing his own hand over Harry’s to keep it there.

He heard a sharp intake of breath, a sigh of relief. 

Tom glanced up, to Harry’s sad eyes. He felt a rush of warmth from where he was touching Harry, a scorching feeling, searing into his skin, from his face to his neck to the tip of his toes. He forgot the dampness of the dungeons and the rage he had felt at first. Harry was here, looking at him, into him.

Tom reached to Harry’s robe and seized it tightly.

“I forgive you.” He said out loud, startling Harry.

“For what?”

“For leaving me alone.” he decided to say magnanimously. Harry stared at him, surprised, and smiled raising an eyebrow.

“What a relief.”

Tom glared at him, but there was no heat, no real anger. 

“You need to stop doing that.”

“I can’t control it.”

“Can’t you?”

“I… I’m not so sure, now, ” he admitted, frowning “I did come here, willingly.”

“Promise me.” He purposely did not specify exactly what he was asking for, letting Harry bind himself out of his own volition.

“Alright, I promise.”

“What do you promise?”

“To not… stay away for too long, from you.”

Tom grinned, finally releasing Harry’s hand and robe. His cheek felt unbearably cold and his hand empty once Harry stopped touching him, he didn’t show it. His heart had not reduced its velocity, like it was running, like it wanted to escape, break out of his chest.

Tom had not many instances to compare to, how he felt now. He could say that it was almost like when he had learned that Slytherin was his ancestor, that sweet euphoria, of finally getting something he had wished for, for so long. 

Harry frowned.

“Tom? Something happen?” he neared hesitantly, crouching to be face level with Tom and examined him “Tom?”

“Do I…” he licked his lips “do I remind you… of someone else, Harry, sometimes at least?” he asked, looking through his lashes, trying to gauge Harry's reaction. 

Harry flinched as if in pain.

“Oh” he said empty; hollow for a second “You… are very observant, yes, sometimes. Not much lately, at all, in fact.”

Is that why you left, he thinks, is that why I haven’t seen you much this year.

“You promised to meet me often,” he spoke.

“I did”

“And you will do so.”

“I will.”

For now… 

“Alright.”

… For now this would be enough.

He blinked slowly, eyelids heavy.

“Tom?”

“I’ll show you that I’m better than whoever I remind you of.” He said, firm, deciding in that moment, certain of it “I promise.”

Harry stopped breathing, his hands went to Tom’s shoulders and settled firm and heavy and warm on them. He smiled slowly, and let out a choked laugh.

“Will you?” and before Tom could snap at him for doubting him, he continued “Alright, this is a promise. We both promise, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been in a good mood lately, Tom, who died?” commented Allan idly as they walked away from the charms classroom.

Tom didn’t answer; he just glanced at him unimpressed.

To be completely fair, he probably was in a better mood. Now that the fever for the Lost Boy hunt had died down and Harry had come back to him, his jaw didn’t ache anymore from gritting his teeth every time he kept himself from hexing someone, every time The Lost Boy’s topic came up, every time he thought about how long has it been since a second stretched longer that it should and moments froze to give away for Harry to step out from the air.

Even now, as they entered the great Hall, he could still feel Harry’s palm pressing on his face. If he focused, he could feel the warmth of it.

It was strange, so strange. He had always hated being touched, even by his peers, even as a child when they had made him grab the other children’s hands so as to not get lost on the streets, he had hated it.

It had made him want to crawl out of his skin and shudder in disgust at their sweaty palms, their grimy skin, their steel trap fingers, tiny and thin like worms. He had dreaded it.

Lestrange waved his hand and made a space for Tom to sit, as he did, Tom threw a searching glance towards the Gryffindor table.

Slughorn had told him last year that Harry had been spotted there a few times across the centuries, and despite that he would surely break his glass in his hands if suddenly Harry appeared in front of everybody’s eyes, even if it was to say hi to Tom, he still had half the hope to see him there, with the other students.

But no, Harry was his secret. He’d keep it to himself forever.

He would also keep the secret of his ascendency, and he’d only reveal it when it was most advantageous. It was a powerful thing to know, and he was no fool to go spilling such things away. 

His meal soured in his tongue as he thought of Harry and the reason why he appeared to Tom. 

He should have felt happy at it, he knew, but…

_But he didn’t._

“Not hungry anymore, Tom?” asked Allan.

“It tastes somewhat spoiled, if you ask me.” He answered, pushing his plate away.

“My father says that every year Hogwarts’ overall quality drops down” agreed Avery “I would not be surprised if they were pinching galleons on meals.”

“Mine agrees.” Bulstrode chimed in.

Tom ignored them.

“There you are” Tom turned at the voice, Harry smiled at him, bright and like no other smile Harry had ever directed at him “I’ve been trying to find you, it was harder than I thought… Tom, what the hell are you doing.”

Tom realized he had stopped rubbing the mandrakes back, and resumed slowly. The thing squirmed but relaxed.

“Testing theories.” He answered. “Look, it’s quiet”

“The scream of it could kill you.”

“That's what the earmuffs are for.” He rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Harry. You ought to be more observant, besides, see? It’s calm.”

“Huh” Harry said, approaching him and slowly examining the Mandrake “How did you do it?”

“A classmate told me to treat it like an actual baby” he shrugged and made a disgusted face “It worked. Mind holding it? I don’t want to touch it anymore.”

“I wouldn't know how, I’ve never held a baby, wait, have _you_ ever held a baby?”

Tom stared at him unimpressed “No, but I’ve seen it.” Harry focused on him and Tom continued, basking on having Harry’s undivided attention now “Jane holds her baby like this, so I’m doing the same”

“Who is Jane?” asked Harry curiously. Tom blanked and said nothing, “Tom?”

“A muggle” he mumbled “don’t concern about it, she is just a muggle”

But Harry looked like he might have bitten onto something, like a cat that had finally caught a pigeon.

“You know a muggle, who has a baby?”

It was not disgust, he hadn’t asked snidely. He seemed curious, terribly curious about it. And he had breathed those words in wonder, and Tom couldn’t help himself but to answer.

“Yes.” He said, putting the mandrake back on its pot, burying it neatly “she works where I stay, she is really young and the baby was born out of wedlock so, to help her safe face Mrs. Cole allowed her to remain there” he pulled off his gloves and let them drop on the table “Only we know the baby is actually hers. But it is easy to guess, since she is always holding it.”

“You copied it from her”

“That’s what I said”

Harry chuckled “It did look somewhat lovingly; the mandrake was quiet.”

Tom flushed at the word _lovingly,_ perturbed at the thought of being seen interacting with a mandrake in a way that could be described as such “Well, I figured it would sooth it the most.” Harry smiled at him again, so bright, a bit amused but not mockingly. Tom impulsively grabbed his wrist. Harry flinched but didn’t pull away. “Let’s go out, I don’t like the green houses.” He commanded, dragging Harry after him.

*

The year ended, filled with secret meetings with Harry, —not as many as he had hoped, not as often as he had wanted—, essays, and the sounds of his peers talking about the most asinine things.

Tom felt dread as he got into the train, the last to enter, when he usually was the first to do so; to classrooms, to his bedroom, to the great hall and the green houses. Always leading.

“Tom, would you give me your address to write you letters during the summer?” asked Allan excitedly. “I’d love to know what sort of things you do when out of Hogwarts”

“I want to know, too,” said Lestrange, the other three nodded and grinned and Tom didn’t have any other option but to comply, to keep them from being suspicious.

Tom left the platform 9 ¾ and stepped out into muggle London with a grimace.

He was faced by a wall of muggles walking in every direction like ants in disarray.The air was damp by the train’s vapor and Tom felt how it immediately permeated his clothes, people pushing past each other, shoving at him as well. Families with their children, mothers crying as only the kids got on trains, waving them away as they parted.

The cacophony of voices was louder than ever, laughs broke through the noise, and children’s schrieks, and people sobbing. Some passersby threw worried glances at Tom as he moved past, he kept his eyes down and frowned in discomfort, wishing that September First arrived already so he could turn heels and run back to the Hogwarts’ express.

Wool's had not changed at all the months he had been away, it stood as tall and grim and unwelcoming as always.

The door creaked as he entered the building. The smell of floor wax hit him in the face and it made his nose hurt. It was eerily quiet, his steps echoed in the walls even though Tom always walked carefully.

Jane exited a room and he almost collided with her. She startled and looked down at him

Her eyes were drowsy and she looked impossibly thinner and pale. She studied him, searching his features, when she recognized him, she dropped to her knees and hugged him tightly.

Tom tensed.

“Oh I was so worried, I shouldn’t ‘ave, I know, but I _was.”_ she whispered, shaking. Tom stood still, the familiar reaction of revulsion at having someone’s arms around him reared its head, but the perplexity he felt made him remain still.

“What do you mean?” he choked out, twitching to push her away.

Jane separated, thankfully, but kept her hands on his arms. “You don’ receive news from outside at your school?”

“No.”

“Oh” she said, voice thick, her face contorted into something unfamiliar. She took a deep breath before speaking again.“Few days after you left last year, the Germans invaded Poland.” 

“And?”

She bit her lip and released him..

“And England… England declared war on Germany,” she murmured, “England’s joined the war; we are at war.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it beggins! random updates time! This one came so soon because I had half of it done anyways  
> I was so so happy at all your comments!!  
> We will finally enter Tom's third year and I'm never, ever, writing a chapter this long again. I mean, i thought about cutting it in half, but there was no right place to do it :'(


	7. Third Year.1.

The third time she saw the boy, Helga was walking back from the kitchens after another restless night. She had called up to him and the boy startled, but had smiled widely when he saw her.

He looked different, much like the first time she had seen him, at the end of a hallway, dark robes, and Gryffindor family colors.

He walked towards her and once he was a few steps away, he seemed to remember they had not shared language through which to communicate. So he stood awkwardly and nodded at her in greeting.

Helga smiled. 

The sight of him that night in the kitchen had been frankly distressing. He seemed better, now. Healthy, clean. It was wonderful that, whatever was happening with this child, he seemed to be having it under control.

“Would you walk with me and listen while I talk? It’s been a long day.” she asked, well aware that the boy wouldn't understand her words, but he seemed to understand her intentions after she gestured forward.

She walked slowly and he matched his pace to hers.

“Rowena is having trouble with her child” she started “when I give her advice, she forgets that I am a mother, too. My children have grown and left, but they did so tearfully, and we meet often enough.” she glanced at the boy, he was staring at the cup in her hand she smiled and showed it to him, careful of not touching him as to not step on some boundaries he couldn't communicate.

“This cup,” she said, “was my father’s, and it’s my favourite. It's not delicate, it's perhaps a bit gaudy. I could certainly buy something more beautiful than this. But beauty does not hold much value to me, and I’m certainly not delicate.”

Salazar’s boy glanced at her at her change of tone, and his eyes gleamed under the lights of the torches, somewhat unnerving, despite their loveliness. He was taller than her, most people were, but the way he had moved around her almost fooled her into thinking him smaller.

She had not noticed they had stopped. She resumed speaking as she did walking, he followed her.

“When I was a child my house burned down... You see, my mother was a witch. My father was a squib. My father was an old man, but my mother loved him. He never spoke much, but he loved her too, I could tell.” In every action, in every shared glance, in every kiss “This cup you see here, he made it himself. He would serve mead on it and toast with it, every night. He won the gold for it on a bet, and he made a cup with it! Our first family heirloom, my mother called it. Our only heirloom, at the end.”

She breathed slowly, cradling said cup with both hands, the badger on it alive in her eyes.

“One day, witch hunters came. I was twelve, and my mother was out, she sometimes left for weeks in search of potion ingredients that didn't grow near our land, so it was just my father and I... I couldn't defend him, the house burned out. In my fear, I had a bout of accidental magic, the world burst aflame and I killed them all.” She confessed. “Everything burned down, the casserole cracked, our linen turned ash. And the only thing that survived, the only thing made of metal that did not melt; this cup, my father’s. I’m not sure why.”

The boy spoke in an inquisitive tone, his face heavy with worry. She smiled softly, heartwarmed at his kindness. He couldn't understand the secrets she had been spilling, just her grief, and had reacted to it with deep sympathy. 

“I waited for a week for my mother to come back.” she continued in a doleful murmur, quiet to keep her voice from cracking “But I couldn't survive much longer without a roof and food so I went to the opposite town, all my positions held in one hand, no other clothes but what I was wearing… I never saw my mother again. Maybe she died in her travels, maybe she came back and saw the house burned down and could never find me.”

She smiled sadly at the boy, who hovered uncertainty, she shook her head to communicate she was alright. 

“I wish I could see her again. I know that she’d be proud of me.”

No one had wanted to take her in, the strange child that came from the strange family at the forest's edge; a witch.

“They don't understand, my friends, they ask for children to have values that they share.

I remember being a child and having doors closed to my face, metaphorically and physically. Always just too painful.”

She let the grimness on her face settle, and then bleed away. Helga was good at letting go.

She beamed, then, not in the mood for further grief, she faced the boy “I will show you something, follow me.”

She gestured to the end of a hallway, where some barrels waited. She walked quickly and waited for him to follow, he did so cautiously. Helga chuckled. 

Helga knelt and knocked on a barrel at the rhythm of the pronunciation of her name. She stood back quickly, vinegar fell on the place she had been. Salazar’s boy goggled at her and at the vinegar Puddle. Helga threw him a mischievous glance.

“Now, child, pay attention. _This_ is the right barrel” she knocked on it, again at the rhythm of her name.

A passageway opened towards the Hufflepuff common room. They both entered with different levels of excitement, her companion was positively brimming with it. The boy looked around, curiously, eagerly, he explored, striding from one corner to another. At Helga's Laugh he turned and beamed at her.

He disappeared there, standing on a rug.

Helga hoped he’d visit again.

*

The welcome feast was a grandiose affair, as it was every year. The sight of hearty meals made Tom’s stomach churn uncomfortably; he could hear animated chatter by his side, very much like the buzzing of flies. Tom stared at his still empty plate blankly; he had not paid attention to the sorting, deaf to it, his thoughts too loud. He fixated on his wrist, on the bone stark to the sight, protruding under too pale skin.

He was too aware that they would have been thiner, his veins probably visible, had it not been for Jane´s pity. 

He clenched his jaw and breathed in slowly, feeling the air as it settled in his chest, he held it there for a few moments.

Jane had told him, as she sneaked him some extra bits of meat, that he always came back so healthy looking and left so skinny, she rather he remained like that.

It was her food, she had said, sitting by his side like nobody had done in years. Tom had sneered at her as if smelling something foul.

“Tom? You look a bit under the weather, are you unwell?” whispered Bulstrode.

“It's nothing,” he answered, voice so tight that Bulstrode did not insist further.

Wool’s had been receiving so many new children, and so many others had been kicked out. His room was given away and Tom went to sleep in the attic with the rest of his stuff, preferring dust and spiders and the always present smell of asbestos over the presence of other orphans. 

They had come in flooding and grim faced, some wailing, a handful of them every day. The walls of the orphanage seemed like a dam about to burst. It was asphyxiating. 

“Tom?” had asked Mrs. Cole peering down at him over her skewed glasses.

“Yes?” he had gritted out, hands shaking, not in anger or cold. He had felt so weak that day, the day before, and the one before that.

“How old are you now?”

“Thirteen.”

She had nodded sharply, her face taut with disappointment.

It felt almost as if a little storm of hail had pummeled him in the back. Mrs. Cole shoes clicked away, steady and sober like Tom had not seen her be in years. Tom looked at the children’s left outside, the windows were dusty so the sight was not clear, but he noticed that there was nobody of fourteen years of age or older.

The hollow feeling was a well-known one. It was the McCall twins again, coughing and crying at the end of the hallway. They had been buried together when Tom was nine, and Ms. Morrison had cried so much, so loud, for weeks. Like a wail, like nightmares, like he pictured ghosts years ago before he had even met one.

And many of those that shared beds, and it could have been him, if he wasn’t such a freak, devil touched…

It could be him again, now; he’d be fourteen when he came back to London.

“Tom, you should eat something.” Lestrange added with an atypical expression of worry on his face. Tom’s jaw clenched.

“Mind your own business Lestrange.” 

Lestrange cringed, which was strange as well.

“You might as well call me Renard, we've been friends for years now.”

Tom almost snaps at him, instead he nods.

“Alright.” he said, glaring “Mind your own business, Renard.”

Lestrange snorted, the laugh as if pulled out without his consent. He kept smiling, afterwards.

Tom eyed the roast in front of him, and served himself slowly, bitter shame pooling in his gut.

“I’m no longer breastfeeding Louis,” Jane had said, propping the toddler on her hip, “you are a growing boy, you should have it.” she had smiled softly and Tom frowned, grabbing brusquely the bread out of her hands. “I’m glad you like it” she had said then, offense and amusement warring in her expression, and in that eyebrow raised smile he had seen Harry, and because of this he said:

_“Thank you.”_

It was a mumble, it had been uttered as if it had been painful to say, and _it had_. Jane’s expression showed how much it had surprised her, eyes wide, mouth gaping, brows up to her hairline. It was extremely exaggerated in tom’s opinion. She was always disgustingly expressive.

“Oh, posh school is doin you some good huh.”

“Shut up.”

She cackled. Her laugh sounded very much like those annoying beach birds’, _seagulls,_ It was unexpected, it was loud and ugly, and she was tiny and thin, at this point not much taller than Tom. He hated her.

Tom ate from his plate as if offended by it. It was delicious, just as he had remembered, and he fought the urge to use his hands. It was so different from the bland meals he had gotten used to this past summer, longer than the previous one, painfully eternal. 

He stared at the gates, searching for Harry, almost waiting for him to take a peek, hidden behind the wood. Tom knew that he had been inside the grounds for just a couple of hours, but the seconds had drawn out tortuously and he felt like he had been waiting for weeks to see The Lost Boy.

He had, actually, waited those weeks. Tom didn't want to think about them, but the memories flashed back unprompted as unwanted thoughts often did .

From the gates his eyes slid towards the Gryffindor table and Tom almost spitted out the food in his mouth. Instead he chewed carefully and swallowed, overly conscious of every movement.

“What the hell is _that.”_ Tom sneered, staring directly at the offending individual: the biggest boy he had ever seen in his life sat with the Gryffindors, occupying almost the space of two students, sporting a tangle of dark hair looking very much like a fat tree.

Allan glanced to where Tom had been staring and made a similar expression of disgust. “You didn’t see when they sorted _it?_ The stool cracked incredibly loud when it sat on it.”

“I was preoccupied by other matters. You didn’t answer my question.”

“That’s a half-bred,” said Virgil, leaning forward, whispering “Its name is Hagrid. Believe it or not, he is a first year.”

Tom knew what half breed meant, he had heard it uttered many times before “Half giant then?”

Lestrange made a disgusted face and said snidely “One of his parents _fucked_ one of those beasts.”

“Don’t use that word!” hissed Bulstrode “It’s uncouth!”

Lestrange sneered mockingly at him and kept on eating. Bulstrode’s face turned red, he huffed and shoved some mashed potatoes into his mouth.

Tom studied the half-breed, but quickly lost interest in him.

Later as he walked towards the dungeons, lagging behind his dorm mates, Tom glanced around discreetly, with a heavy feeling in his chest of aching anticipation. 

In his distracted state, he almost collides with Orion Black. The boy took a look at him and ducked his head, quickly stepping away. Tom felt eyes on him and glanced to the side to meet Abraxas Malfoy’s cool gaze. He was glaring, intensely so. Tom smirked.

*

Tom felt the air shift, the currents stuttering as they hit his face. At the edge of his vision he saw as Harry stumbled forward, his face pale as steadied himself on a wall. They were in the dungeons, a few minutes before portions started. Tom didn’t think about this as he grabbed Harry by the wrist and pulled him into an unused classroom. 

Inside, the room was dusty and humid. At the far end of it, a couple of manacles hung from a wall.

Harry eyed uneasily where Tom’s hands warped around his wrist, yet he didn’t make an attempt to remove them. Tom seized Harry’s robe and pulled him towards him. He stared up, hesitantly, before resting his forehead on Harry’s clavicles, and taking a deep breath.

Harry coughed “Tom?”

Tom didn’t answer; he took a step closer, careful of keeping the contact at the minimum, just close enough to feel the heat emanating from Harry. 

“Tom.”

“Quiet.”

“Tom, what the hell?” he asked, voice too calm to be actually irked.

“Shut up, I’m busy.” he stressed, annoyed.

Silence, then, Harry started laughing. Tom could feel the movement as Harry’s body shook with mirth.

“You-” he gasped “Oh merlin you are so weird.” he said still chuckling.

Tom tightened his grip to a point it could almost be painful, but Harry didn’t flinch. Tom inhaled deeply before speaking.

“I have potions soon. We will talk later” Tom mumbled. He pulled away slowly, glanced up and released Harry abruptly before turning and striding away. Very much like escaping, but unlike it, Tom wanted to just turn back and press his face on Harry’s robes.

He had wanted to do that since he felt the tip of his nose become impossibly cold by the draft entering through rotten wood and he fought to sleep after a week in the attic. He tried to warm it with his hand but they were cold as well, his extremities were all cold, as if he had been drained of blood, slowly throughout the day. 

Louis had hidden his pudgy little face on the crook of Jane's neck when the chill and morning dew had hit him. Wool’s children were guided in line towards mass, flanked by a few matrons and Jane and her toddler walked near the rear. Tom’s feet were dragging from his spot by Mrs. Cole's side, who used to pull him by the arm when he was younger and had never lost the habit of walking close to him.

Every thought had vanished then when he saw the boy. Knowing how uncomfortable that must have felt for Jane, he thought she would shrug the child off as he would have done, but her hand had pressed the boy’s head further until it was lost in her hair, softly.

 _Lovingly_ he heard it be described in Harry’s voice.

The intense desire of doing the same came down onto him and made him stutter slightly in his pace. That exact same action with Harry, hiding his face on that warm juncture between neck and shoulder, a palm burying in his curls as he was softly pressed forwards, warm skin against his cold nose.

And that desire had followed him as a phantom craving, assaulting him in cold nights and mornings. And now that he had indulged himself on this, now that Harry was here, now that Harry had proved himself to not push him away when Tom came closer, Tom had realized despairingly that _he wasn't tall enough_ to do so.

He huffed as he pushed the doors of the classroom open.

“Tom! my boy! You were almost late” smiled Slughorn when he saw him “Take a seat. We will be brewing something extremely fun to begin our year with a bang! Not literally, mind you.” he chuckled.

Tom nodded and sat beside Avery.

*

Last summer had been bad for his little business, having most of his clientele been drafted to the continent, and those that remained too poor to pay. The biggest deterrent, unfortunately, had been the heavy watch on the kitchens. Now that they were brimming with children, plus wartime rationing, they were always locked and only opened under a matron’s watchful gaze.

He’d have to find another way to make money in the muggle world. He was a grow spurt away from having his robes be _way too_ short for him. 

There were new students at the school, coming most from Beauxbatons, six in total and two of them ended up at Slytherin House. One of them turned out to be one of Lestrange’s cousins from the French branch of his family, Alexandre Lestrange, who was currently cursing Hogwarts’ fifth year.

Alexandre Lestrange shared very little with Renard Lestrange, from their looks to their personalities. Alexandre upturned his nose to most everything he found, and had a calm way of speaking that was entirely opposite to his cousin.

Unlike Renard, he didn’t seem to like Tom much. But then, he didn’t seem to like most things at all. Renard had advised Tom to use the francophone pronunciation of his last name if he ever spoke to Alexandre. Tom did, and it worked like a charm; Alexandre seemed grateful for it. 

Tom thought that he must have found this entirely new environment obscenely jarring, feeling like he did not belong, and the others felt he did not belong as well; when he spoke he didn't pronounce the words different, but the cadence of his speech betrayed what he was to them, an outsider.

Tom, noticing how such things isolated him from his peers, took advantage of it by being open and friendly to him and to the other exchange students, leading by example. His acquaintances in other houses saw this and followed through. Yaxley thought it _adorable_ and whispered it to him when he passed by her side one night. Alexandre saw it too, and quickly warmed up to him.

“He wonders how could you be in Slytherin, being so nice and welcoming.” Renard told him from his bed, curtains not closed yet. 

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him that if he was unable to see through it then maybe he should have been sorted in Hufflepuff.”

Tom grinned to himself.

As he slipped under the sheets, as he closed the curtains, he thought of waking to the feel of eyes on him when he went to sleep that night, and the night's past had been the same. Tom now could tell if it was Harry’s eyes on him or someone else’s. 

Harry’s eyes were the sort that fell intensely upon you, like unforgiving morning light as it awoke you; harsh but not harmful.

He had missed the feeling of the sun rays on his face, waking him up earlier than everybody else, when he slept in the attic. And… he had missed Hogwarts’ and… all of the castle’s fixtures.

It was strange; he had not missed any of his dorm mates, people who he shared a lot of time with, at all.

Tom buried his head on his pillow, eyes tightly closed.

Yet he had ached for the feeling of being flayed open by some else's' too green eyes. He wanted to feel again what he felt that night in the dungeons, like he was the only thing tethering Harry to land. 

Like he was the only real thing that Harry could touch, he wanted to feel that again. He yearned for it. Tom willed this thought away, he had recognized it for what it was and, he refused to give Harry any power over him.

He was the one with the upper hand, Harry needed him.

Not the other way around.

*

For the first time since he came to know he was a wizard, Tom held interest about what was going in the muggle world. Not out of concern, but out of the need to know if Germany invaded England as well. Unfortunately the Daily Prophet did not talk about other things besides Grindelwald’s movements in the continent, the raids, and the fear of the man setting foot on the Islands. The war had followed Tom to Hogwarts, and he wondered if he would remain untouched by it at the end. 

There were so many things out of his control, he couldn’t wait to turn seventeen and be able to move around without having to answer to Others and Other’s laws. He couldn’t even control Harry.

He had seen Harry for a few seconds at least once every day since their first meeting. He’d appear far away, at the end of hallways, at the edge of the black lake, and disappear. It came with the feel of his heart logging at the base of his throat and then dropping painfully to its seat behind his lungs.

*

All his professors, except Dumbledore, had congratulated him on his initiative to be open and friendly towards the new students. He wanted to tell Harry about it, he knew he’d be happy about it. Tom kept on playing their meetings in his head, gauging Harry’s reactions to every word he said, to his every movement. 

It almost kept him from maintaining his helpful student facade. Guiding the first years around, passing his notes, smiling openly to the new students, always with an eye trained for Harry.

As Gabriel Boucher waved him in thanks, he felt eyes on him. He met Abraxas Malfoy’s glare steadily.

“May I help you?”

Malfoy made to turn away, but he hesitated at the last second, instead, he approached Tom.

“I don’t need help from the likes of you, Riddle.” He bit out. It was the first time he had spoken to Tom.

“Keep on walking, then.”

Malfoy’s nostrils flared, his arm twitched and his hand flexed. He inhaled deeply “Learn your station, _Riddle.”_ He sneered and turned away, living his back open. Tom refrained from hexing him; it would do him no good. He _knew his station_ after all.

* 

It was September 11th, a Wednesday, and Tom noticed with disdain that Brian Taylor’s hands had been shaking through the entire class. Professor Merrythought threw the boy a sympathetic glance but did not call him out on his sloppy wand work. Tom did not bother to offer help.

Merrythought had droned on how to repel spider-type beasts with _arania exumai_ and Tom was excited to try it out with the presented spiders that the professor had brought inside a huge box. Many children screamed when she released them to the class, only Tom and few others proceeded to cast the spell on them, and even fewer did it successfully, Tom amongst those who did.

At the end of the lesson a carpet of stunned spiders of all sized coated the floor. It was a disgusting sight, a girl gagged.

“This spell will work as well with bigger arachnids. Next class I’ll be bringing an acromantula for you to practice on, be prepared, they are vicious.” Merrythought said crisply as she vanished the mess. “Dismissed.”

“Riddle, may I speak to you?” a voice said weakly at his back.

Taylor’s.

“What do you want?” sneered Lestrange, Taylor flinched, his eyes searched for Tom’s, who nodded.

“Wait for me at the common room.” Tom ordered softly and glared when his dorm mates hesitated, before complying and leaving him hurriedly. He faced Taylor. “What can I do for you?”

The other boy licked his chapped lips, and shuffled his feet. “You… you come from London, right?”

“I do.”

“Is your family alright? have you heard from them?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You are so calm.” He commented, his voice cracked.

“I’m an orphan, I don’t have a family.”

Taylor flinched and blushed.

“Oh, _oh._ Tom- I’m so sorry-”

“Its fine,” he cut him, “why do you want to know.”

Tom’s patience was dwindling with every nervous twitch on Taylor’s face. Finally, the boy spoke, and Tom did not understand the words Taylor had uttered so hurriedly, the boy searched for something on Tom’s eyes, but Tom could only say:

“What do you mean bombs?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uni's kicking my ass y'all


	8. Third Year. 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was betaed!! by the lovely [sayuri_tamano](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sayuri_Tamano), who is very knowledgeable and kind, and it's thanks to them this chapter readable

_“I can hear… Can you hear it?”_

_“What is it?”_

_“Fear. It sounds… It sounds like fear. And rage.”_

Salazar paused and caressed his beard pensively. Harry’s eyes were distant.

_“How is it possible to hear feelings? I've never met that sort of empathy before.”_

_“It's not empathy,”_ the boy snapped, attention back to Salazar. _“It's like something’s calling me, and it sounds like… like that.”_

_“Have you ever heard such a thing before?”_

_“I haven't heard it,”_ Harry answered. _“I think I've felt it, though,”_ he whispered, and Salazar knew that the boy was talking to himself now. In a second, he’d forgotten Salazar´s presence and focused inward, a flash of shame crossing his features. 

_“Harry?”_ Salazar tried to grab the boy’s sleeve, but Harry turned around quickly and walked away, not noticing. _“Harry!”_ he called as the boy disappeared midstep.

*

Only when Tom finally felt the floor under his feet again did he dare open his eyes. 

He saw his shoes first, then his hands on his knees. His ears had ceased ringing, and he could finally hear his own breathing again. Tom stood up slowly and glanced around. This was the old classroom that Harry had once told him had been used for charms.

Taylor had stared at him wide eyed once he finished ranting, repeating someone else’s description in such a way that Tom knew it was verbatim. Tom had nodded and said:

_“Oh. Very well, thank you for letting me know.”_

The next thing Tom knew, he was crouching inside an unused classroom, his chest burning like he had held his breath for too long. His throat felt raw, as if he had swallowed sand─ handfuls and handfuls of it. 

He thought back and remembered, slowly. He had walked here. Yes, instead of the common room, he came here.

And he had shouted. It took all of the air in his lungs, and he felt the sound as it bounced on stone walls, as the dusty old desk shook. He belatedly had thrown a silencing charm to the door, before shouting again.

And again.

His wand laid on the floor in front of him. Sneering, Tom’s eyes narrowed in disgust at the sight. Careless. He probably dropped it in his fit. Tom huffed as he picked it up, forcing himself to look as if his own world hadn’t shaken up so abruptly he felt it crack beneath his feet. Composing himself, as if to hide the low tremble of his hands from prying eyes. 

Was there a London to go back to? Surely the professors wouldn’t send him back.

Tom had not read of it happening in the Daily Prophet, not even as a footnote. No mention of death raining down on England.

He cast a quick tempus and realized it was dinner time. His year mates would wonder where he had been. 

He didn’t want to talk to them.

They probably didn’t even know. They didn’t have the need to know as this wouldn’t touch them.

Tom was vulnerable to it. He’d be back in a few months time, defenseless. Alone. 

There’d be no walls to protect him, like they did once from the disease that killed the other children. No roof over his head would withstand the sheer force of it. 

Perhaps there would be nothing left of Wool's when he went back to London. 

Tom would be destitute, unprotected. The muggles would scent him; see him dragging his massive trunk and in desperate hunger they’d go for him. For whatever they could grip, to seize, to twist, to rob.

They’ll rip him apart limb by limb, and they’ll pull his hair when he tried to flee, scalping him, he’d stumble down onto rubble, breaking his teeth, them cracking into splinters still sticking to his gums, and blood would flood his mouth, he’d gag on it, as the muggles’ hands clenched around his ankles, dragging him over broken glass. They'll take everything from him. And when he was nothing but a broken lump of bones and flesh, _bombs would drop from the sky, and there’d be no escape, no shelter._

And he’d be like hunted prey. He could almost feel himself skinless, helpless and raw, and facing blazing fire.

“Tom?”

Tom shuddered and coughed as if he had been drowning. There was a sharp pain in his lip; he had bitten it. He glanced up and saw Harry.

“Harry.” He said with no inflection. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard you calling.”

“I didn’t.”

The teen hesitated, his eyes roaming him up and down, Tom felt suddenly all too aware of the creases in his robes.

“I know —but I heard it.”

Light was waning and it was dyed by sunset. The warm shades made Harry look inviting, like a fire in the cold night. All red and golden, like the colors embroidered in his robe.

“What happened?” asked Harry as he slowly approached, taking place by Tom’s side.

Tom was still shaken, but saw the opportunity and took it. He climbed onto Harry’s lap, all too aware of his own size and weight, and how uncomfortable Harry must feel, but he didn’t care about those things. He felt as Harry tensed and squirmed, as he grunted in pain when Tom’s tail bone dug into his thigh.

But he did not shove him off.

“Tom?” he asked, voice high pitched and tight. Tom made himself comfortable, uncaring for the other boy’s discomfort.

Tom hid his face on the crook of Harry’s neck, slowly as to not be noticed, inch by painful inch, and it was just as warm as he had pictured it. The feeling made him dizzy, and Harry smelled so _sweet._ He closed his eyes.

“Tom?” whispered Harry, and Tom felt the soft breath in his hair.

“There are bombs raining down on London,” he said, voice muffled by Harry’s neck. The other boy shuddered. “And they’ll send me back, an’ I will die.”

Tom couldn't anticipate how Harry would react, but he knew Harry well enough to know that vulnerability would endear him more than a show of strength. It helped that it had been years since Tom felt this vulnerable. He hated it, and he burned in shame.

Tom heard a sharp inhale.

“Oh,” said Harry, his voice thick with an emotion Tom couldn’t identify. It sounded almost like realization, and then─

Then Harry pressed his hand on Tom’s head, his fingers finding place within Tom’s curls, and pushed softly, so Tom’s face was positioned in the space between shoulder and neck. Harry’s hair tickled his cheek lightly. The shame evaporated, easily overshadowed by this new and strange feeling. 

In that moment, very much as the acute need to draw in air under water, Tom felt the sudden urge to open his mouth and _bite─_

But he refrained. Instead, he seized the back of Harry’s robes and clung to him.

“You won’t die, Tom,” Harry said. Tom shuddered.

“How could you know?”

“I- I just know.”

Tom felt stupid at how much he wanted to believe him.

After a while Tom’s back started to hurt slightly, then sharply, but he refused to move. Harry’s arms around him─ one hand on his nape and the other around his waist─ felt like weights keeping him in the present, away from the future that loomed dreadfully, away from London.

A role reversal to what had happened in the dungeons. 

The magnitude of what Tom was letting happen fell upon him; Tom realized that it was Harry now the one tethering _him_ to land and flinched. He pushed Harry abruptly, causing the other boy to hit his head on the stone wall.

“Don’t touch me!” he sneered, scrambling up.

“Ouch! Bloody fuck,” Harry held his head as he cursed. He glared up at Tom. “ _You_ climbed into my lap!”

Tom blushed and threw a jinx at Harry. The boy yelped and glared at Tom, looking defiant even while kneeling. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Tom said finally.

Harry grumbled something under his breath and stood up as well. They glared at each other, deep blushes staining both their cheeks.

Tom’s eyebrow twitched. He noticed that there was no trace of dust on Harry’s robe.

“I missed dinner,” he snapped.

Harry deflated.

“Oh. Kitchens?”

Tom refused to look at Harry’s face when he answered.

“Alright.” 

When Tom was seven years old a Whooping Cough outbreak struck the orphanage.The disease had originated in a house at the end of the street. Mr. Raymond had coughed violently on his niece Lisa, who had taken to attending to him as he languished, bedridden, sticky with sweat and stinking of vomit.

Lisa often played with another girl who lived at Wool’s. Every afternoon and right before sunset, Lisa brought two ragdolls to play. Nonetheless it had been Mason McCall who first showed symptoms, as he coughed, his entire body convulsing, until he finally threw up all over his shoes. 

The McCall twins shared their room with another boy. It should have been four boys in that room instead of three, but Tom had terrorized them for months, day and night. And after he made spiders rain one night, Mrs. Cole decided that, in order to protect the kids from the strange occurrences that happened around him, he was to have the small room that used to belong to an old matron that had retired to live with her sister.

Tom had been having nightmares of bugs crawling all over his skin, caused by the itchiness of the sheets and the slight allergy he had to the new detergent. So, without meaning to, he projectected it into reality and brought upon them every arachnid that lay hidden in the corners of Wool’s orphanage.

This happened two weeks before Lisa’s uncle passed, and three weeks before Mason McCall heaved out his breakfast.

At the end of the outbreak nine children had perished, including Lisa and her friend. The McCall twins were the last to be buried.

They were buried together, and the surviving childrens of Wool’s attended the funeral. Tom’s feet felt heavy and his shoulders impossibly tight. Had it not been for his allergy, for his nightmares, he would have shared a room with them, would have been buried alongside the twins and whoever died within the short time frame to his demise.

Tom was extremely aware of it, so when Billy Stubbs sneezed all over the back of his neck as they stood above the fresh graves, he had felt a sudden, piercing fear accompanied with an all too familiar rage.

Billy whined on the floor, holding his now bleeding nose, quivering and muddying himself, and Tom had been severely punished with the metal ruler later. For disturbing the burial, for punching Billy. 

His hand had hurt so much, but it had felt so good. 

Tom jerked awake to the sound of loud, dry coughs. He pulled open the curtains and stared at Allan's bed frame with his heart beating painfully in his chest. The dislodged memory of that same sound echoing through walls and waking him up years ago made him pale, although he knew it was impossible for the disease to have manifested out of his dreams into the room. Like spiders did once. Like centipedes crawling between wood cracks.

Allan got out of bed groggily without noticing Tom’s sharp gaze on his back and made his way to the bathroom. There, he took long and audible gulps of water. He stumbled as he came back. When his eyes met Tom’s he waved his hand and climbed onto bed, dropping down and blearily pulling the blankets on, soon enough he began to snore.

Tom pulled the curtains closed and tried to focus on something other than his heart jumping inside his rib bone. He cast a tempus- it was just a few minutes before four o’clock.. Sleep evaded him after that, and an hour later he slipped out of bed to get ready for the day.

This process repeated itself for a few days, but he refused to let his fatigue drag him down. He ignored pitying glaces the teachers sent him, the odd looks from his schoolmates, until one morning before breakfast, Yaxley stopped him as he left the common room. She grabbed his chin, pulling it up and Tom jerked away and sneered at her before he could stop himself. Thankfully, she didn't seem offended. 

“Eyebags at your age? Unsightly,” she tutted, her hands on her hips. Tom smoothed out his expression.

“Late night studying,” he lied. 

“All nighter?”

“Yes.”

“I knew your success couldn't be from talent alone,” she teased. A little smile took place on her lips. “I'll teach you something useful.”

She drew her wand from her robes and waved it in a half moon motion, touching both his cheekbones; she then transfigured a mirror out of a notebook, and showed his face to him. It was free from any signs of exhaustion, healthier than it had looked the entire semester.

“It’s a glamour. All it does is even out your skin; if you use it for something other than eyebags or zits, people will notice, so don’t use it for large expanses of skin. Not even to cover freckles.”

“I don’t have freckles,” Tom said, unwilling to thank her.

“You’ll need to go out for that, longer than the journey towards the green houses.”

She patted his cheek softly and left.

Tom tried not to feel annoyed at being patronized, but it was moot. He glared at her back, trying to drown the embarrassment away.

*

The glamour was useful, the odd looks from the other children stopping altogether. It did not seem to fool his teachers at all. Slughorn stopped him once after classes to assure him that if he needed anything, he could come to him. Tom smiled gratefully while cold fury took root within him. Slughorns’ offer was not void of ulterior motives─ he wanted Tom in his debt. Of course Tom knew that, it was expected when people offered help. It was the fact that someone had decided to offer him assistance that angered him. 

He was not weak.

He stopped as he thought that Harry, perhaps, would offer help without wanting something in return, odd duck as he was. Or perhaps it was that the feeling of being needed was enough payment for the other boy. 

Other people's vulnerability was Harry’s weakness, Tom realized.

Tom heard someone scoff and turned slowly. Abraxas Malfoy stood behind him as students poured into the potion’s classroom a few paces away.

“Living out of your teacher’s pity, Riddle? I’m not surprised, even as a mudblood you are pathetic enough to warrant some… kindness,” he sneered at him. “Hopefully once you go back to the muggles one of their _bombarda_ weapons kills you, you sniveling little worm.”

Tom felt on his knuckles the phantom sensation of punching Billy Studs. It felt good then, it might feel amazing now to squach Malfoy’s pointy nose.

“Finally tired of glaring at my back, Malfoy? I thought it was unbecoming of you to speak to a _mudblood_. Now it seems to me that you were quite eager to do so.”

Malfoy’s face reddened and his face contorted into disgust.

When he answered his voice was cold and tight, “I’m so tired of seeing you roaming around like you deserve something, like you expect people to follow you as you walk when you should be crawling.”

“Are you jealous that if I were to crawl people would follow me crawling as well?” he smirked. “I’ve seen you try to earn the exchange student’s favor and failing miserably. Perhaps you are just unlikeable.”

Malfoy’s jaw clenched shut, he took a step forward, towering over Tom.

“You think you are so special, don’t you Riddle,” he said almost like a whisper, dripping venom with every word. “With your little sequitur of third and second years, almost a little prince. You are nothing more than a filthy _mudblood,_ ” he snarled, coldly, lowly. Tom felt himself coil, not in cowardice but to spring and attack. He stared at Malfoy.

His hand twitched towards his wand.

“Fifteen points from Slytherin,” said a sharp and clear voice by their sides. They turned at once. Darla Flint stood there, arms crossed and straight backed. “You should know better, Malfoy, than to use that sort of language in the corridors.”

The boy twitched, a vein popped on his neck as he clenched his jaw. He threw Tom a venomous glance and sneered at Darla. “How responsible of you, Flint, to show such care for _all_ the members of the house of Slytherin.”

“It is my duty as Head Girl to uphold _every_ rule within the castle, and to mind the younger students. I must admit I was surprised, who would have thought that the Heir of the house of Malfoy would force my hand to impart discipline. Fifteen points puts us behind Ravenclaw after all.”

“Indeed,” gritted out Malfoy. “I wonder how the other students will react when they find out how far behind we are now.”

Flint glances at Tom and Tom smirked at her. “Of course, I will win those points back before the end of the day. It’s the least I can do, Malfoy. I did manage to hurt your… sensibilities.”

Malfoy opened his mouth, surely to say something caustic, but Darla smiled at Tom. “See that you do, Riddle. Malfoy and I would be terribly embarrassed if such avoidable strifes would cause us to lose the House Cup after all,” she frowned. “Besides, you are late to class.”

Malfoy nodded and walked away with his chin held high. He did not look at Tom until he entered the potion’s classroom and sent him a hateful glare.

Flint sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Common room?” she asked, and Tom nodded. They walked together. “His father told him to make allies within the new students,” she said with a faint sneer. “You got ahead of him.”

“I was about to hex him.”

“If you’d done that then Malfoy Senior would have you expelled.”

“I am aware,” he said bitterly.

*

Life moved on within the castle, and the only clue of the happenings in the muggle world were written in the faces and taut shoulders of mudbloods and half bloods. Tom refused to be seen the same, so he kept his head high, his shoulders forcibly relaxed. Yaxley’s glamour kept others from seeing the purple beneath his eyes, dark like day old bruises. Dark like Mason McCall’s when he was on his deathbed.

Tom stared at himself in the mirror every morning, searching for traces of exhaustion. The buzzing in his head kept him awake the first half of the night, and once he finally achieved sleep, the second he started to dream all he could feel was scorching fire licking his skin. He would jolt awake, breathing heavily and only relaxing once he registered the cool light coming from the windows. 

He spent his sleepless nights going through textbook after textbook, memorizing the contents like a man possessed. And he was. He felt as such at least. He'd survived by mere chance once before, when he should have died, and were he not a wizard, he'd have spent the bombing at London.

But he _was_ a wizard, an extraordinary one at that, and he knew wizards lived long but they were not impervious to death. And Why has no wizard ever defeated death? How come none have achieved immortality yet? 

The closest thing was Harry’s curse, as the boy had lived for centuries, separated from time. He felt anxious after his last meeting with Harry two weeks ago. He couldn't stop thinking about it. 

How Harry had openly received him in his arms─ no questions asked, no recrimination. At the feel of long fingers in his hair. He felt the ghost pressure of them, and he clenched his teeth in an attempt to calm himself from the sudden feeling that took a hold of him, that crept up his legs and towards his torso, that made him feel _dizzy_. He wanted that again.

He was not blind to Harry's hesitancy in previous encounters, but this time the other boy had not only tolerated him, but pressed him closer.

And that. Tom wanted that. He wanted him closer.

At the clocktower, Tom saw his reflection and saw his face look back at him with a blank mask, healthy and well rested thanks to the glamour. 

Harry liked ugly things, unwanted things. But Tom would never be ugly, and while he was inside Hogwarts walls, he wasn't unwanted. Most of the time, at least.

Perhaps if he had met Harry earlier, back at Wool’s...

But Harry did not belong in the bleak corners of the muggle world. Tom couldn't imagine him not wandering the castle’s halls.

Tom undid the glamour and let the purple bags show. He looked so tired, emaciated the way he sometimes did in the orphanage after a few rough days. It was a show of vulnerability. 

Because Harry thrived on it. And he was coming.

Tom could feel it now, increasing every passing hour as reality tensed and tensed until it snapped, and Harry stepped out of the gash as it was ripped apart. 

Tom turned around, bone tired and showing it. Harry stumbled from thin air. He looked around, frowning. He seemed weary. When his eyes landed on Tom, they softened.

Tom’s mouth dried and his heartbeat picked up.

“Tom,” Harry breathed. “How long has it been?”

“Two weeks.”

“Not too bad, huh,” he grinned. “The times between meetings are getting shorter. Who knows, maybe I’ll end up attending classes alongside you.” He used a joking tone, but Tom ignored it, a bitter feeling crept up his throat.

“No,” Tom growled, angry at the thought of Harry interacting with other people. Harry flinched slightly, his eyes dulling as he scowled.

“Very well, Toddlermort. Is there anything you want to do while I’m here?”

Tom blinked.

“ _What_ did you just call me?!” he hissed. Harry winced.

“Did I say that outloud? Sorry it’s, um. It’s ye olde slang for, erm, Gremlin Child.” 

Tom tugged Harry’s wrist and stepped into his space, almost standing on Harry’s toes. He glared up. 

“You're lying!” he snarled, “You’re insulting me, aren't you!”

“I practically just admitted it,” Harry shrugged, stepping even closer. And for the shortest moment he seemed dangerous, angry. But then it was gone, and he was back to being an exasperated teenager. “I’m getting really tired of your mood swings, Tom.”

Tom released him and stepped back, frowning. Harry wore masks, just like him. 

Tom kept losing his cool while Harry was around. It was not the calculated vulnerability he had planned to show him, but he could use it.

“I apologize, I have not been sleeping well.” 

“Oh, right,” Harry eyed him up and down and sighed. Tom’s eyebrow twitched. Harry merely passed him by, sliding out of the classroom.“Follow me.”

He guided Tom to a painting displaying an old fat man, sitting on a chair and snoring loudly, a table with papers in disarray by his side. Tom glanced at every corner, and listened for steps coming their way, but he could only hear the wind and the man’s snores. Harry touched his shoulder lightly and grinned at him, nodding at the old man. He leaned closer and Tom’s heart sped up painfully, it was not in fear, he realized. He didn't have time to realize much more.

“Watch,” Harry whispered.

Harry took a step back, and in what sounded terribly like an impression of an irate Mrs. Cole, he shrieked, “HAROLD SEBASTIAN! WAKE UP YOU LAZY BUM!”

The man snorted and woke up, eyes round and bloodshot. He stood up abruptly. 

“I-I-I am working, dear!” he took a step and tripped on his feet, falling forward, and for a second Tom thought he’d fall on them. But the only thing that happened was that as he was about to, what seemed, trip out of his frame, the painting opened abruptly like a door and slammed on the wall. Noticing the dark hallway behind, Tom peered inside curiously, and then looked to Harry. The other boy was grinning widely.

“Found this one recently!” he admitted. Tom heard the painted man curse loudly from the other side and snickered. Harry bit his lip in excitement and gestured to the back of the painting. “You need to provoke him into opening the door. Scaring him out of his mind works; I usually just pick fights with him.”

He followed Harry into the unlit passageway. 

*

Tom didn’t dare meet with Harry as his moments alone were becoming fewer and fewer. From time to time he’d felt, in some distant place at the other side of the castle, as Harry appeared. He itched to drop his books and leave his classmates where they stood, to run before the time was up and Harry was gone again.

The instances when Harry came to him were precious, and the only exception to Tom’s absolute hate of surprises. It seemed that every time, Harry warmed up a little bit more to him, and showed him new places to visit, new things to see. More and more secrets. With every visit, the muggle world and its problems became less important. All his fears faded away, the looming danger far too distant to register. Tom felt untouchable walking inside Hogwarts walls, trailing behind Harry. 

Almost like finding magic in this already magical world.

When Harry was not around, Tom moved exclusively through the secrets passages, much to his dorm mates exasperation. Virgil, especially, whined and pouted and begged for Tom to show him where to find Hogwarts’ secret passages. Tom smiled mockingly and shrugged, murmuring, “Find them yourself, it isn’t that hard.” 

On one of those alone moments, he took a direct passage towards the viaduct courtyard, the one that Harry had told him about in his first year. It was just as cramped as described.

Tom descended silently, lighting the tip of his wand with a _lumos_ so as not to trip. Just as he was about midway down the staircase, Tom heard sniffling coming from the steps below, and if he hadn’t recognized the voice, he would have turned away, unconcerned.

Instead, Tom peeked behind the stairs to find Martha Yaxley sitting on a step with her face hidden in her hands, sobbing quietly. When she heard him approach, she groaned and shrunk into herself.

“Leave me ‘lone,” she mumbled, voice muffled.

“Yaxley, '' Tom called. She jumped and looked at him in surprise. Her eyes were puffy and her nose was so red that it was visible even in the dim light. She looked ugly, Tom mused absently.

“Riddle? Wh-why are you here?”

“Passing by,” he raised an eyebrow. Yaxley chuckled weakly and gave him a watery smile.

“Then, pass through. Leave me alone, okay?”

Tom would, normally. He didn’t care about comforting others, but Martha Yaxley had proved to be… useful, in a way. And she had formed a picture of him in her head that Tom was reluctant to shatter.

Besides, Yaxley was nothing if not loud and talkative. Seeing her hidden and crying inside a cramped, barely known hallway, was far too strange to not pick his curiosity.

“I would, if you tell me there's nothing I can do for you.”

“There's nothing you can do for me.”

“Are you sure? Think about it,” 

Tom sat on the step directly above her.

Yaxley regarded him for a moment, then she closed her eyes and inhaled shakily. “I don’t know what to do,” she confessed. “I- I need to leave. Soon. Go somewhere far away.”

“Why is that?”

Yaxley whimpered and rubbed her nose with her sleeve. Tom transfigured a sheet of paper into a handkerchief and handed it to her, and she mumbled a thanks after blowing her nose.

“This yule, a couple of hours after lunch, my mother took me to the side to have tea together. We haven’t done that since I was a little girl, so I was- I was happy. She had muffins too, which is rare because she’s always so insistent about me keeping my figure, but I didn't think much of it.” Her voice trembled and she took in a steadying breath. “It smelled delicious. It smelled like- like cinnamon and chocolate and orange peels and-” she gasped, her chest heaving, “and…”

“And…?” he prompted.

Yaxley closed her eyes and bit her trembling lip.

“And like the earth after rain, like Darla’s perfume, like fresh paint,” she choked out. Her hands covered her face again as she wailed like a little child. Tom knew what she was talking about and was both surprised and interested. He thought of Harry, of what the other boy would do in this situation, and put a hand on her shoulder. She leaned closer to him and cried until she tired. 

The moment her bawling dissolved into small hiccups, Tom spoke.

“You need to leave that house, then.”

“I don’t know how! I can’t apparate because that can be traced! Brooms won't fly too far, they’ll know if I get a portkey, and there are no pegasi in the market─ they’d know if I got one, and I can't afford it anyways!”

An idea came to him.

“Ride a thestral.”

“What?” mumbled Yaxley.

“A thestral. They’re better than Pegasus, since they are invisible to most, and there's a herd in the forbidden forest.”

“I wouldn't- I- how?” she babbled.

“I could catch one, I visit them sometimes.”

“But Tom… I've never- I couldn’t see them?” 

“Is that the only problem, then?”

“The only- I can't ride something I can't see!”

“You just need to see them.”

“What do you want me to do, break into St. Mungo's and hope I get lucky?”

Tom shook his head, face serious. She paled, “I can’t kill anybody!”

“I could,” he offered, “for you. And you’d watch.”

Yaxley gaped at him.

“What?” she hissed. “How can you say that? Who- _how_? You’d go to Azkaban!”

“Not if it’s a muggle.”

“Yes it is!” she cried out, hands flailing. “You can’t use magic on a muggle!”

“I wouldn’t be using magic, though,” he whispered, his tone even. Yaxley stilled. “I can't use my wand outside of Hogwarts, and we wouldn't be using yours, obviously. We’d use a muggle method for it, untraceable by magical means. You’ll witness it, and then you’ll be able to see thestrals. And you’ll escape.” 

Yaxley stared at him for a long time, eyes wide and chin trembling. She nodded faintly.

“Okay,” she said softly, and whimpered.

Yaxley's face fell and she gasped. She hid her head between her knees and sobbed, louder and louder. Still behind her, Tom observed her coldly as she bawled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am alive and well and Uni gave me an asskicking my grandchildren will feel :'). We are not back to the previous updating schedule sadly, but hopefully I wont take months to update chapter 9!! I was absolutely floored by all your comments, I'm sorry it took me so long to answer them, please know that it's always a delight to do so <3  
> edit: [my sideblog](https://queen-elizardbeth.tumblr.com)


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